
library of CON^-^ 


D00QT^HH7Hb 


: -s ■ I ir ^ V .r *7-i^ ; i ^ t ^ i ^ t ir* ;< ►i#! : 







Class 

Rook ■ ?i9 2 . 

Go[pghtN?_Hiu 


COPyRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




HONOR BRIGHT 

A STORY FOR GIRLS 


THE 

HILDEGARDE-MAROARET SERIES 
By Laura E. Richards 
* 

Each large 1 2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 
per volume, $1.65 

¥ 

Queen Hildegarde 
Hildegarde’s Holiday 
Hildegarde’s Home 
Hildegarde's Neighbors 
Hildegarde’s Harvest 
Three Margarets 
Margaret Montfort 
Peggy 
Rita 

Fernley House 
The Merryweathers 

The above eleven volumes boxed as a set, $18.15 

THE PAGE COMPANY 
53 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass. 



f 







YOU HAVE SENT MARIA TO COVENTRY : I GO ^VITH HER 

good-by! ’ ” (See page 218) 




Honor Bright 

A STORY FOR GIRLS 



BYjyiV^ 

V^LAURA Ei' RICHARDS 

»i 

Author of 

“The Hildegarde- Margaret Series,” "Captain January,” 

“ Melody,” “ Five Minute Stories,” “ Mrs. Tree,” 
“Geoffrey Strong,” etc. 



ILLUSTTIATED BY 

FRANK T. MERRILL 



f 



THE PAGE COMPANY 
BOSTON © MDCCCCXX 

1 





Copyright, ig2o, by 
The Page Company 

All rights reserved 


First Impression, August, ^^20 


SEP -3 1920 


THE COLONIAL PRESS 
C. H, SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A. 


©CU576266 


ELIZABETH SHAW 

WITH MUCH LOVE 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I At Pension Madeleine 1 

II How Honor Found Her New Name . . 13 

HI The Moutaineers 31 

IV The Outgoing 46 

V Bimbo 59 

VI In the Chalet of the Rocks ... 74 

VH ZiTLi 89 

VHI The Mountain Fireside 108 

IX Story-Telling 131 

X Courtship and Castle-Building . . 151 

XI Farewell to the Chalet .... 171 

XH Stormy Weather 190 

XHI The Way to Coventry 207 

XIV The Strange Old Lady 235 

XV The Bombshell 261 

XVI The Apples of Atalanta .... 284 

XVII The Blaze of Glory , . , , , 304 


\ 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


‘ You HAVE SENT MaRIA TO COVENTRY : I GO 
WITH her! Good-by! ’ ” (See page 218 ) 

Frontispiece 

^ I HAVE THE Capet hand, you perceive ! ’ ” 26 


1 /" 


AtLI . . . WALKED BESIDE HER, HIS ARM ON 
HER NECK ’’ 52 

Standing on one side, arms akimbo ” . . 88 

Honor could hardly speak her delight ” 167 




‘ Oh ! ’ CRIED Honor. ‘ Oh, how lovely ! ’ ” 307 


■ ■ 



n>y y< '/sv , • „• y< 


■r\' ■■■ ■’ '.'’*'■2 

a "vN:' : ^"'6 ' '^ ■ ■■■' ■ 


S •^^;^•T^i«8nS»} A//.-* V, rrf‘>2 V ‘ • N V,‘ ■ > 

mmmmf juita 


auTr- ' . ■-V/.-.,'/*'’: ,■■■''■'. ■■" -i. i; 

,‘:<s V- 


K\ 




,s'.»,.VV.t«‘i' 

fv'- \ 

•I, 


• 


■.» ' c • -■ ■ J 




B 3 • '■■A4k 

' ,t-' I I 

F'"-: '• I ‘ 


'•" ■ A';:'. ■’■ 

Ll i? 4 •i4> . • 

‘■Vt•'^;*^..•'vV'YV‘ 

.1 4 i/ \ 


J ’ * hi ft -. f 4 . 

^ .‘'{>^'^' 1 * 10 ''^“' 


. ■ 'spr-:^ 


?' 'f'/ '. ''> 


W jSSfe' ' ' 

lAsti.A: • V'. r ; (Wi 


aT . y • ‘ '**1 , V ■ •»v A" * '/ • 

■» v.v. f. 1, . ?,. . TWPnHiB ] 

>tVH'i^-'' "• ’''’5 ‘.»1* <' ■ • ' ’x**' *-,• Ai V*' '.‘■.►a 

HiliiMm.' 'V ;-->‘ ."ii?- rSaBP- •'.: 

I I .' '• » ' ' . -zr jRft 




L» aH »• tir •• / '♦ ■ 

v.-' %-V '♦ **"** J ' fl® 


ii ,'-A '■' «•. , Y(f rf’-f^ 

:-te • 



/liVs 





HONOR BRIGHT 


CHAPTER I 

AT PENSION MADELEINE 

Honor Bright was twelve years old when 
her parents died, and left her alone in the 
world. (Only, as Soeur Seraphine said. 
Honor would never be wholly alone so long 
as the earth was inhabited.) Six of the 
twelve years had been spent at school in Ve- 
vay, at the Pension Madeleine, the only home 
she knew. She was too little to remember 
the big New York house where she was born, 
and where her toddling years were spent. She 
was only two when her father accepted the 
high scientific mission which banished him to 
the far East for an indefinite time. Of the 
years there she retained only a few vague 

memories ; one of a dark woman with tinkhng 
1 


2 


HONOR BRIGHT 


ornaments, who sang strange old songs, and 
whom she called ‘‘Amma”; one of an old man- 
servant, bent and withered like a monkey, who 
carried her on his shoulder, and bowed to the 
ground when she stamped her little foot. All 
beside was a dim mist with curious people and 
animals moving through it. Long robes, float- 
ing veils, shawls and turbans; camels and 
buffaloes, with here and there an elephant, or 
a tiger (stuffed, this, with glaring eyes, fright- 
ening her at first, till Amma bade her be proud 
that Papa Sahib had shot so great a beast) ; 
ringing of bells, smell of incense and musk and 
flowers, stifling dust and drowning rain; all 
part of her, in some mysterious dream-way. 

When the child was six, the climate began 
to tell upon her, as it does on all white chil- 
dren, and her parents were warned that she 
must leave India. They brought her to Swit- 
zerland, to Vevay, the paradise of schoolgirls, 
and left her there with many tears. Since 
then she had seen them only twice or thrice; 


AT PENSION MADELEINE 


3 


the journey was long and hard; her mother 
delicate. 

The last time they came, it was a festival for 
the whole school. Mrs. Bright, beautiful and 
gentle, ‘‘like a jasmine-flower,” as Stephanie 
Langolles said; Mr. Bright, kind and bluff, his 
pockets always full of chocolate, his eyes twin- 
kling with friendliness; they were in and out 
of the Pension constantly, during the month 
they spent at the Grand Hotel in Vevay. It 
was destructive to school routine, but as Ma- 
dame Madeleine said to Soeur Seraphine, 
what would you? The case was exceptional. 
How to deny anything to these parents, so 
tender, and so desolated at parting from their 
cherished infant? Happily another year 
would, under the Providence of God, see this 
so affectionate family happily and permanently 
united. 

“One more little year,” said Mrs. Bright, 
as she embraced Honor at parting. “Then 
Papa’s long task is done, and we shall go 


4 


HONOR BRIGHT 


home, and take you with us. Home to our 
own dear country, my little one, where chil- 
dren can live and be well. No more pensions 
for you, no more strange lands for us. 
Home, for all three; home and happiness!” 

"‘And now,” sighed Soeur Seraphine. 
“At twelve years old, an orphan! Our poor 
little one ! And she has seen them so seldom ; 
what tragedy!” 

Madame Madeleine shook her head sorrow- 
fully. “As for that, my sister,” she said, “it 
appears to me less tragic than if these so-hon- 
ored parents had surrounded, as it were, the 
daily life of the child. Tiens! She has been 
with us four years, is it not so? In that pe- 
riod she has seen her parents thrice, a week 
each time. What wou]d you? A child is a 
child. Honor weeps to-day; to-morrow she 
will dry her tears; after to-morrow she will 
smile ; in a month she will forget. And there, 
if you will, is tragedy!” 

Madame Madeleine was right. A week 


AT PENSION MADELEINE 


5 


after the sad news came, Honor was telling 
Stephanie (who had been away for a fortnight) 
all about it: I must not say with enjoyment, 
for that would be untrue : but with a dramatic 
interest more thrilling than sorrowful. 

‘‘Figure to yourself!” she said. “We are 
in the classroom: it is arithmetic, and I am 
breaking my head over a problem wholly 
frightful. On the estrade is Madame, calm 
as a statue, her little white shawl over her 
shoulders, comme qa, Vivette is making 
signs to Loulou: it is the peace of every day. 
Enter Margoton, a telegramme in the hand. 
Madame opens it; reads; a cry escapes her. 
Calming herself on the instant, she bids us be 
tres sages^ and leaves the room. Shortly ap- 
pears our Sister, and calling me tenderly to 
her side, takes my hand and conducts me to 
Madame’s boudoir. There I hear the fearful 
tidings. My parents are in Paradise!” 

Honor paused, and drew a long breath, 
shaking her hair back with a dramatic 


6 


HONOR BRIGHT 


gesture. Stephanie clasped her hands. 

^‘Cherie, how terrible! But continue! 
What — how did this happen? An acci- 
dent?” 

“Cholera!” (I fear Honor was enjoying 
this part ! ) “The cholera Asiatique, most ter- 
rible of all diseases, bringing death in an in- 
stant. Two days ago, — figure to thyself, 
Stephanie : two days ago, they were in health : 
Maman, whom you remember, all beautiful; 
Papa, good as bread, who overwhelmed us 
with chocolate — the pestilence breathed upon 
them, and Heaven opened to receive them. 
Ah! that is terrible, if you will!” 

The two girls were sitting together in Hon- 
or’s little room. Ordinarily, they would have 
sat on the floor, but to-day her mourning was 
to be considered. The waxed floor shone 
with a brilliant polish; no speck of dust was 
visible anywhere in the spotless cell (it was 
hardly more in size) ; still, one could not be 
too careful. 


AT PENSION MADELEINE 


7 


‘‘Black is very becoming to thee, my poor 
dear!” said Stephanie. “Thy hair is like a 
cloud of golden fire above it. Nothing could 
be more beautiful, I assure thee.” 

Honor looked anxiously in the little mir- 
ror that hung over the chest of drawers. It 
was a pleasant image that she saw; a round 
rosy face, with a pretty, wilful mouth, dark 
blue eyes heavily fringed with black lashes, 
a straight little nose, and, as Stephanie said, 
a perfect cloud of curly red-gold hair. All 
this, I say, was pleasant enough; but Honor 
did not notice the general effect; what she saw 
was a collection of small brown spots on the 
bridge of the straight little nose, and extend- 
ing to the cheeks. Freckles! No one else 
at Madame Madeleine’s had freckles. Pa- 
tricia Desmond, with her complexion like 
moonlight on ivory; Vivette, with the crimson 
glow mantling in her brown cheeks, Stephanie 
herself with her smooth, pale skin — 

“Ah!” cried poor Honor. “This hideous 


8 


HONOR BRIGHT 


disfigurement! Shall I ever outgrow it, I 
wonder? Maman said I should, but I know 
not!” 

Stephanie thought the freckles quite as 
dreadful as Honor did, and looked her sym- 
pathy. 

^^TiensT she said. ^‘We have the appear- 
ance that the good God gives us.” 

Here she glanced at her own reflection, with 
complacent approval of her brown velvet eyes 
and black satin hair. 

‘‘My poor Honor ! But your hair is always 
beautiful, and there are no eyelashes like yours 
in Vevay. Take courage! In the story your 
hair is dark, is it not? The story marches al- 
ways? When shall I hear another chapter?” 

Honor’s face brightened. The story was 
always a comfort when the freckles became too 
afflicting. It was to be a romance, in three 
volumes : the story of her life, beginning when 
she was sixteen. (She was now twelve!) It 
opened thus: 


AT PENSION MADELEINE 


9 


"‘I was young; they called me fair. My 
mirror revealed masses of jet-black hair which 
rippled smoothly to the floor and lay in silken 
piles on the velvet carpet. My eyes — there 
was one who called them starry pools of night. 
My cheek was a white rose.” 

Stephanie thought this a wonderful descrip- 
tion. Honor, as I say, always found comfort 
in it, and forgot the freckles while she was fol- 
lowing the fortunes of her dark-eyed counter- 
part. 

‘‘To-morrow, perhaps ! Now — Stephanie, 
thou must help me in a sorrowful task. It is 
to put away — ” 

“Thy colored dresses, cherie? But surely! 
but thou wilt wear white. Honor? It is every- 
where admitted as mourning, thou knowest!” 

“Fiordispina and Angelique!” Honor 
spoke with sorrowful dignity and resolve. 
“Yes, Stephanie, it must be so! While my 
parents lived, do you see, I was a child; 
now — ” An eloquent shrug and wave com- 


10 


HONOR BRIGHT 


pleted the sentence. ‘‘I am resolved!” she 
said. ‘‘These dear ones, with whom my 
happy childhood has been passed, must re- 
tire to — finally, to the shades of memory, 
Stephanie!” 

“How noble!” murmured Stephanie. 
“Thou art heroic. Honor!” 

Shaking her head sadly. Honor opened a 
cupboard door, and with careful hands drew 
out — certainly, two of the most beautiful dolls 
that ever were seen. Maman had chosen 
them with her own exquisite taste, in Paris and 
Rome. Angelique, the Parisian maiden, was 
blonde as Patricia herself, with flaxen hair and 
eyes of real sky-blue; Fiordispina, on the other 
hand*, might almost stand for Honor’s dream- 
self. Her hair did not reach the ground, 
much less lie in silken piles on the velvet car- 
pet, but it was long enough to braid, and it 
was real hair: moreover it was hair with a 
story to it. Maman had bought it in Rome, 
from a woman whose daughter had just en- 


AT PENSION MADELEINE 


11 


tered a convent, and had her beautiful hair 
cut off. The woman wept, and assured Mrs. 
Bright that there was no such hair in Rome. 
Most of it had been purchased by two noble 
Princesses whom age had deprived of their 
own chevelure; there was but this little tress 
left. She had thought to preserve it as a 
memento of her child, but for the puppazza 
of so charming a donzella as the — finally — 
she named a price, and Eiordispina received 
her head of hair, in place of the bit of fuzzy 
# lamb’s wool which had disfigured her pretty 
head. 

Honor looked long and tenderly at the doll; 
then, dipping her hand into the pitcher of 
water that stood on the commode close by, she 
sprinkled some crystal drops on the calm 
bisque face. 

^'TiensT she said. ‘‘She weeps, my Fior- 
dispina! how lovely she is in affliction, Ste- 
phanie! If I dressed her in mourning, but 
deep, you understand — do you think I might 


12 


HONOR BRIGHT 


keep her? But no! I have resolved. The 
sacrifice is made!” 

She produced two neat box beds, and laid 
Fiordispina, serenely smiling through her 
tears, in one, while Stephanie tucked An- 
gelique snugly in the other. They were cov- 
ered with their own little satin quilts, em- 
broidered with their names; the boxes were 
closed and tied with satin ribbon. 

‘‘The sacrifice is made!” repeated Honor. 
“It is accomplished. Don’t tell the other 
girls!” 

And she burst into tears, and wept on Ste- 
phanie’s shoulder. 


CHAPTER II 


HOW HONOR FOUND HER NEW NAME: AND HOW 

THEY LIVED AT THE PENSION MADELEINE 

‘‘Black and red!” said Patricia Desmond. 
“You look like a Baltimore oriole, Honor!” 

“What is that?” asked Vivette. “Bal-ti- 
moriole? Quest-ce que cest que qa?^^ 

“Baltimore — oriole! Roll your ‘r’ twice, 
Vivi! . More — ori-ole!” 

“Moro-morio — bah ! That does not say it- 
self, Patricia. Moriole, that is prettier, not 
so?” 

“Have it your own way! It’s a bird, and 
Honor looks like one in her black dress, that’s 
all. She moves like a bird too; ‘flit’ is the 
word there, Vivi.” 

“Fleet?” Vivette repeated carefully. “Is 
that co-rect, Patricia?” 


13 


14 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Patricia yawned; Vivette was rather tire- 
some with her English. 

“ Tleet’ will do,” she said. ^'She’s that 
too. No, I can’t explain: I’m busy, Vivette.” 

"‘Bee-sy? Like a bee, is that, Patricia? 
Tres occupeCy nest-ce pas?^^ 

‘‘It does; and if you don’t go away, Vivette, 
I’ll show you with a hatpin what a bee does!” 

^'TiensF^ murmured Vivette; “none the 
less, ‘Moriole’ is pretty, and far more facile 
to say than ‘Honor’!” 

That was how Honor came to be called 
“Moriole” among the girls; the name clung 
long after the black dress had been laid aside. 

Two years passed; years of calm, peaceful, 
happy days. Two years of study in the gray 
classroom, with its desks and blackboards, 
and its estrade where Madame Madeleine or 
Soeur Seraphine sat benevolently watching, 
knitting or rosary in hand, ready to encourage 
or reprove, as need should arise. They were 


HOW HONOR FOUND HER NAME 15 


sisters, the two ladies of the Pension Made- 
leine, though, as the girls often said, no one 
would have thought it. Madame Madeleine 
was the elder by many years. She was more 
like a robin than one would have thought a 
person could be; round and rosy, with bright 
black eyes and a nose as sharp as a robin’s 
bill. She wore black always, with a little 
white knitted shoulder shawl; and flat shoes 
of black cloth which she made herself, no one 
knew why. 

Soeur Seraphine was slender and beautiful, 
so beautiful in her gray dress and white coif, 
that every new girl longed to dress like her, 
and all the girls made up romances about her, 
no one of which was true. Both ladies were 
“good as bread,” and everybody loved them, 
even people who loved no one else; old 
Cruchon, the milkman, for example, who an- 
nounced boldly that he hated all human kind. 

Two years of recreation in the garden, with 
its high box hedges, and its brick-paved alleys 


16 


HONOR BRIGHT 


from which the girls were set once a week to 
remove the weeds and mosses that came 
sprouting up between the small bright red 
bricks. (Thus they learned, Madame would 
explain, the ceaseless industry and persever- 
ance of Nature, overcoming every obstacle; 
besides strengthening the muscles of the back 
in a manner altogether special.) 

It was a delightful garden, with its square 
plots of flowers and vegetables, alternating 
along both sides of the broad central allee 
which ran its entire length; its fruit trees 
fastened primly to the brick walls, ‘‘like one’s 
hair in curl-papers,” as Patricia said; its cur- 
rant and gooseberry bushes, and the great 
grapevines that buried the lower wall in a mass 
of heavy green. 

The grande allee was not bricked, but was 
covered with sand, white and firm and delight- 
ful to run on. Was it not rolled every morn- 
ing by Margoton, daughter of Anak, the gi- 
gantic gardener and chorewoman? Here the 


HOW HONOR FOUND HER NAME 17 


girls might run at will (within bounds of 
health, prudence, and good taste, as Madame 
explained) either for mere pleasure and ex- 
ercise, or by way of preparation for the 
Courses, which were held here; the races for 
the Pommes (PAtalante, the little gilded ap- 
ples which were more coveted than any other 
school prize. Of this more hereafter. 

Two years of quiet evenings in Madame’s 
own parlor, the dim, pleasant room with its 
dark shining floor and old tapestries, its won- 
derful chandelier of Venetian glass and the 
round convex mirror that was so good (said 
Soeur Seraphine) for repressing the sin of 
vanity in the breast of the Young Person. 
We sat upright on cross-stitch tabourets, and 
knitted or embroidered, while Madame or the 
Sister read aloud, ‘‘Telemaque,” or ‘‘Paul et 
Virginie,” or “La Tulipe Noire.” 

It was a happy time. Dull, some of the 
girls found it; Stephanie, for example, who 
pined for excitement; Rose-Marie, who was 


18 


HONOR BRIGHT 


desperately homesick for Aigues-Mortes 
(thought by some the dullest place in 
Europe) ; Loulou, who considered all study a 
forlorn waste of time. 

Honor loved it all, and was happy; but as 
Madame Madeleine frankly said, Honor would 
be happy anywhere. 

‘‘She carries her world with her!” Ma- 
dame would shrug her kind shoulders under 
their little white shawl. “We are but scenery, 
ma mieF^ 

Whereupon Soeur Seraphine would sigh 
and murmur, “Poor Honor! poor dear child!” 
and say a special prayer to Ste. Genevieve for 
her favorite pupil. 

There were ten of them: three Americans, 
Patricia Desmond, Maria Patterson, and 
Honor herself, the rest French or French- 
Swiss. Rose-Marie was the oldest and had been 
there longest; poor Rose-Marie, so good, so 
dull, the despair of all except Soeur Seraphine, 
who never despaired of any one. Loulou was 


HOW HONOR POUND HER NAME 19 


the youngest, a little mouse-like girl afflicted 
with a devouring curiosity, which was always 
getting her into scrapes: scrapes, for which 
Stephanie, who, I am sorry to say, was some- 
what similarly afflicted, was apt to be partly 
responsible. 

Stephanie was pretty, lively, sentimental, 
and always in love with somebody. She had 
tried worshipping Patricia, when she first 
came, but that, Patricia intimated to her qui- 
etly, was a thing she could not endure, and 
the sooner she, Stephanie, dropped it, the bet- 
ter for all concerned. Since then there had 
been little love lost between the two girls. 
Stephanie transferred her adoration to Honor, 
who took it simply, as she took most things, 
and thought it was wonderful of Stephanie to 
care for her. 

Vivette was pretty, too, — indeed, most of 
the girls were pretty, a fact which gave Soeur 
Seraphine more pleasure than she felt it quite 
right to take in anything so temporary and 


20 


HONOR BRIGHT 


ensnaring as flesh and blood. But, she would 
reflect, Vivette, for all her beauty, was seri- 
ous. Tiens! If she should prove to have a 
Vocation! When this thought first came to 
her, Soeur Seraphine felt her heart sink in a 
strange and certainly a very sinful manner. 
She loved her vocation ; for herself, it had been 
a heavenly refuge from certain tragic sorrows 
of her youth. When her convent had been 
broken up a few years ago, she had been at 
first like a homeless bird, till the good elder 
sister, long widowed, had come to her, and 
folded her in strong, tender arms, and taken 
her away to Vevay, to share her home, her 
work, and all her good, peaceful life. 

Yes; but why then did Soeur Seraphine’s 
heart sink at thought of Vivette’s having a vo- 
cation for the cloister? Well, because the 
little Sister desired that everybody might be 
happy; and in her heart of hearts she would 
have liked to see every young girl blissfully 
married to a young man without fault, of mar- 


HOW HONOR FOUND HER NAME 21 


velous beauty, large fortune and irreproach- 
able lineage. That was all. Of course, 
where a young person had a real vocation, it 
was another matter. Vivette had hitherto 
shown no signs of special piety, but what 
would you? She was yet young. If even an 
unuttered thought should in any mysterious 
way turn her from heavenly paths, that would 
be grievous sin on the part of the thinker. 
Satan was very watchful, and her own heart, 
Soeur Seraphine reflected, was desperately 
wicked. The Sister did penance for this, and 
fasted on a feast day, to the amazement of the 
girls and the great distress of Madame Made- 
leine. 

She need not have disturbed her sweet self; 
Vivette had no vocation whatever, except for 
teaching. She was a very practical girl, and 
had, at the age of fifteen, mapped out her life 
methodically. She explained it all to Honor: 
somehow they all explained things to la Mori- 
ole; she was sympathetic, you understood. 


22 


HONOR BRIGHT 


‘‘I also shall bee-come an orphanneF’ she 
said in her careful English. ‘Tor you, my 
all-dear, this was unattended, — hein? ‘Un- 
expected?’ Merci bien, cherie ! — your hon- 
ored parents being still in the middle ages. 
Ainsi — hein? I have again made fault? 

Honor explained patiently; “middle ages” 
meant something wholly different; it meant 
Charlemagne and Lorenzo de Medici and all 
that kind of thing; in short, the Feudal Sys- 
tem! Besides, she said, Maman was really 
young, but quite young for an old person ; nor 
was Papa so old as many. 

“But go on, Vivi! Why should you be- 
come an orphan?” 

Vivette explained in turn. Her parents 
had married late; her father was already bald 
as a bat, her mother in feeble health. What 
would you? They had told her all simply 
that it would be necessary for her to earn her 
own living when they joined the Saints, or else 
to make an advantageous marriage. 


HOW HONOR FOUND HER NAME 23 


“It is like that!” said Vivette, simply. “I 
assure thee, Moriole, I have observed, but with 
a microscope, every desirable parti in Vevay. 
There is not one with whom I would spend a 
day, far less my life. Enough! I desire to 
teach. To master the English tongue, to go 
to Amerique, to instruct the young in my own 
language — voila! it is my secret, cherie! I 
confide it to thee as to the priest.” 

Honor, with shining eyes, promised to keep 
the secret, which, by the way, half the school 
knew. It was very noble of Vivette, she 
thought. How strange, how incomprehensi- 
ble, to be able to teach! To write, now, that 
was different. That was as natural as breath- 
ing. 

It was noble also of Jacqueline de La Tour 
de Provence to accept the lot which Fate had 
in store for her. This also was confided to 
Honor, in a twilight hour in the garden. 
Jacqueline was a slender, lily-like girl, too pale 
and languid, perhaps, for real beauty, but 


24 


HONOR BRIGHT 


graceful and highbred, aristocrat to her finger- 
tips. She was a Royalist, she told Honor. 
How could it be otherwise with one of her 
House, 

‘‘What is your house?” asked Honor inno- 
cently. “Is it in Vevay? Is it one of the 
chateaux on the hill?” 

Jacqueline laughed her pretty silvery 
laugh; that also was high-bred, if her speech 
did not always match. 

“The Americans are incredibly ignorant, 
are they not?” she said amiably. “It is that 
you have no noblesse, my poor Honor. Every 
Frenchman knows that in the veins of the 
family of La Tour de Provence runs the blood 
royal of France.” 

“Oh, Jacqueline! not really? How thrill- 
ing!” murmured Honor. 

“A La Tour de Provence married a cousin 
of the Grand Monarque!” said Jacqueline, ac- 
knowledging the murmur with a regal bend 
of the head. “But that is notlyng; the Bour- 


HOW HONOR FOUND HER NAME 25 


bons, you understand, are of yesterday. On 
my mother’s side — ” she paused, and pro- 
ceeded slowly, dropping each word as if it 
were a pearl — ‘‘I am a daughter of St. Louis, 
and of those from whom St. Louis sprang. I 
am directly descended from la reine Berthed 

‘‘Jacqueline! What do you tell me? Not 
Bertha Broadfoot?” 

Jacqueline again bent a regal head. “Wife 
of Pepin d’Heristal!” she said calmly. 
“Mother of Charlemagne! From that royal 
and sainted woman descends the House of La 
Tour de Provence!” 

She paused to enjoy for a moment Honor’s 
look of genuine awe and astonishment; when 
she continued, it was with a touch of queenly 
condescension, which might have moved to un- 
seemly mirth any one less direct and simple- 
minded than Honor. 

“We were not in the direct line of succes- 
sion ; our ancestor was a younger brother, you 
understand, of the Emperor. We have never 


26 


HONOR BRIGHT 


reigned! But we know our descent, and we 
never stoop. Such as you see me here — ” 
Jacqueline made a disparaging gesture — ‘‘in a 
tiny pension (though the Madeleines are well- 
born, it goes without saying, otherwise were I 
not here!) surrounded by a little bourgeoisie 
like this, I remain Myself.” 

Jacqueline was silent a moment, contem- 
plating her polished finger-nails. 

“I have the Capet hand, you perceive!” 
she raised a very pretty, useless-looking hand ; 
not to be compared for beauty with Patri- 
cia’s hand, thought Honor, that combina- 
tion of white velvet and steel, but pretty 
enough. 

“Was — was Queen Bertha really lame?” 
asked Honor timidly; it was really astonishing 
to be talking with a Capet; she wondered 
whether she ought to bow when she spoke. 
“And did she really spin?” And Honor re- 
peated the familiar rhyme that every French 
child knows: 



^«E^! 


< 

* 

... 

* 

^ ♦ 

•K ’ 



*aiik iIm*-' 

% . 



‘t 


1 





J 



4 



1 


* 



t * 


\ iT^. 

* ".*■ * V 

' * ■ ’■ 


0’ ’ 




F‘ 

i 




r 




V 


Cm 


>*-i 



ji» 



.* *A » 


f 



» 41 

< 



I 

I 



^ #* 


1 

f 





HOW HONOR FOUND HER NAME 27 


“Ah! the good time for every one 
When good Queen Bertha spun!” ^ 

‘‘My sainted ancestress,” replied Jacque- 
line, “was all devoted to her people. Her 
time was principally passed in spinning and 
weaving garments for the poor. So great was 
her industry that she spun even on horseback, 
carrying her distaff with her. Her constant 
labors at wheel and loom caused one foot, that 
which worked the treadle, to become larger 
than the other; this at least is the legend in 
our House. You can figure to yourself, Mori- 
ole, my feelings at seeing, as lately among 
these children of unknown people, the holy 
and venerable Queen made part of a childish 
game.” 

Honor blushed to her very ears. She and 
Stephanie had been playing only that day with 
Loulou and Toinette, the two youngest pupils, 
the old nursery game, never dreaming of harm. 

^ ‘‘Ah! le bon temps que c’etait 
Quand la reine Berthe filait!” 


28 


HONOR BRIGHT 


‘^Avez-vous bien des filles, cousin^ 
Cousine la reine boiteuse — ’’ 

She hoped Jacqueline had not seen her. 
Madame Madeleine had asked her to amuse 
the little ones for half an hour. Next time 
they would play something else, ^'Compagnons 
de la Marjolaine/’ or ^'Nous nHrons plus au 
boisr 

‘‘How does your — your family” (Honor 
could not somehow bring herself to say 
“House”; it sounded so undemocratic!) 
“feel about the Republic?” 

“We do not recognize it!” said Jacqueline 
calmly. “For us, it does not exist. We 
serve his sacred Majesty Louis Philippe Rob- 
ert, whom you probably know only as the Due 
d’Orleans.” 

“I don’t know him at all!” said poor Honor. 

Jacqueline gave her a compassionate smile. 
“His Majesty lives in retirement!” she said. 
“Little people like thee may be excused for 
an ignorance which is rather the fault of 


HOW HONOR FOUND HER NAME 29 


others than of thyself, Moriole. For the rest, 
we bide our time! We follow the customs of 
our House, and mate — so nearly as may be — 
with our equals.” 

She then went on to tell Honor of the Fate 
that awaited her. She was to remain another 
year at school. Then, when she was eighteen, 
she was to be married, to the Sieur de Vire- 
lai, a nobleman of their own neighborhood, 
a friend of her father’s. He was some- 
what older than her father, but a grand 
seigneur^ with one of the historic castles of 
France. 

‘‘When I am the Lady of Virelai, my poor 
Honor,” said Jacqueline, “you must visit me, 
you must indeed. I shall receive you with 
pleasure.” 

The supper bell rang just then, and the fu- 
ture Lady of Virelai jumped up with more ani- 
mation than she often showed. 

“There are to be apple fritters for supper!” 
she cried. “Margoton told me so! Quick, 


30 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Moriole, or those greedy children will get the 
top ones.” 

“Why shouldn’t they?” asked Honor, as 
they sped up the allee. “There’ll be plenty 
for every one.” 

Jacqueline turned a look of surprise on her. 

“The top ones,” she said, “are the last off 
the griddle; naturally, one desires them!” 


CHAPTER III 


THE MOUNTAINEERS 

It was Madame’s birthday, a bright June 
day; it was also the feast of St. Zita. 

Every girl. Catholic and Protestant alike, 
had laid a flower on the Saint’s shrine, the 
pretty little marble shrine at the end of the 
garden, with the yellow roses climbing over it. 
Every girl had presented her gift to Madame 
at breakfast, to the good lady’s unbounded 
astonishment. They had been making the 
gifts under her benevolent nose for a month 
past, but she had seen nothing; Soeur Sera- 
phine said so, and she ought to know. The 
steel beads of Honor’s neck chain (Honor was 
not skilful with her needle, but she could 
string beads with the best!) had flashed in sun 
and lamp light, had dropped on the floor and 

31 


32 


HONOR BRIGHT 


been rescued from corners and cracks; Ma- 
dame never noticed. She did not even notice 
when Maria Patterson’s handkerchief case fell 
into the soup, which, as Patricia said, served 
Maria right for tatting at table. Soeur Sera- 
phine saw, and Maria got no pudding, but 
Madame Madeleine never so much as looked 
that way, and never faltered in her recital of 
the virtues and sufferings of St. Zita. 

She almost wept with pleasure over her 
gifts ; never, she declared, were such charming 
objects seen. And of a utility! Tiens! this 
beautiful blotter, how it would adorn her desk ! 
And the exquisite chain! Would it not sus- 
tain her spectacle case, which in future would 
never, as had so often happened, become 
wholly lost? And — "‘Ma Patricia! this beau- 
tiful scarf cannot be for me: tell me not so, my 
child! It is for a princess rather!” etc., etc. 

Dear Madame Madeleine ! Surely her 
birthday was the happiest day of the happy 
year for herself and all of us. 


THE MOUNTAINEERS 


33 


After the presentation, all was joyous bustle 
and hurry: baskets to pack, shawls and cloaks 
to collect, fiacres to summon; all for the an- 
nual expedition to the Rockers de Meillerie, 
the most wonderful picnic place in the world. 
The fiacres (three of them! it made quite a 
procession ! ) took the party down to the lake, 
where the little steamer lay at her pier, the 
smoke pouring from her funnel. What ter- 
ror lest they should be late! What frantic 
signals waved from the six windows of the pro- 
cession of fiacres! The steamer gave no sign, 
but puffed away stolidly; they had been on 
board half an hour, sitting on their camp stools 
in a serried phalanx, before she rang her bell, 
shrieked thrice through her whistle and began 
her leisurely progress across the lake. 

What a voyage of wonder that was! The 
morning was crystal clear, the mountains stood 
in dazzling white and resplendent green, the 
lake was a great sparkling sapphire studded 
with gold and diamonds. 


S4 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Honor, sitting near the stern, watched the 
swirling wake, stretching far behind, saw the 
rainbow bubbles rise, dance, break, fall away 
in silver showers. She was fascinated, could 
not even look up at her beloved mountains. 

''TiensT whispered Stephanie. “This tall 
stranger, very distinguished, who regards us, 
Moriole!” 

Honor shook her shoulders a little impa- 
tiently. Stephanie was always seeing distin- 
guished strangers; they seldom, if ever, were 
distinguished in Honor’s eyes. 

Suppose, she thought, an Arm should sud- 
denly appear, rising from the bosom of the 
lake, 

“Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful!” 

Suppose Undine were there — no 1 she lived in 
a fountain ; well, other nymphs then ! There 
must be ever so many. But it was to be some 
time yet before Honor came to her water world. 

“Regard the mountains, my child!” said 


THE MOUNTAINEERS 


35 


Madame. "They also are dressed to welcome 
us, is it not so?” 

Honor looked up, and the mountains took 
possession of her again. One could hardly 
look at the white giants themselves, they were 
too dazzling, midway between the vivid blues 
of sky and lake, the blinding sunlight beating 
on them. Instinctively one’s eyes blinked, 
fell, rested on the lovely green of the lower 
forest-clad heights; lower still, on the mellow 
brown huddle at their feet, on the very edge 
of the water, the Rocks of Meillerie. 

“Behold!” said Madame. “The good rocks 
which await us!” 

The good rocks, basking in sunshine as 
soft as it was warm, neither dazzled nor 
blinded ; they welcomed. They were actually 
warm under the feet, as, released from the 
steamer, the happy girls clambered over them, 
laden with baskets, shawls, campstools. 

""This way!” the brown rocks invited: ""tc- 
the left here, my children, under our shadow, 


36 


HONOR BRIGHT 


for the sun is hot! here rather to the right, 
since the footing is better. Yonder is a place 
of treachery; avoid always that emerald patch! 
Unknown depths lurk beneath.” 

And so on, and so on! Did the rocks ac- 
tually speak, or was it Soeur Seraphine pant- 
ing in the rear, cautioning, adjuring? Never 
mind! Here they were at last in the picnic 
place, their own place, discovered by the two 
good sisters, Madame Madeleine and Soeur 
Seraphine, hundreds of years ago, when they 
were girls themselves. No one else knew of 
it, they were sure; except, of course, Atli and 
Gretli, and they were safe. It was a family 
affair, the rock parlor, with its brown walls 
and its carpet of softest moss. No treachery 
here ! The moss was as dry as it was soft ; a 
wonderful moss, like tiny velvet ferns; Honor 
and Stephanie agreed it could grow nowhere 
else in the world. Here and there baby rocks 
jutted through the green, making perfect 
stools; there was even an armchair for Ma- 


THE MOUNTAINEERS 


37 


dame; it was arranged, Soeur Seraphine as- 
sured them gaily. Nature, the good Mother 
Superior of the White Sisters yonder — she in- 
dicated the towering giants above them — had 
designed this place for them. 

‘‘Sit down, my children! My sister, this 
cushion for thy back, is it not so? VoilaF' 

The snowy cloth was laid on the moss be- 
fore Madame’s rock armchair; the baskets 
were unpacked, amid squeaks of rapture. 
Oh ! the great pie I ah 1 the brioches^ the galette, 
the Lyons sausage, all the good, good Swiss 
dainties ! how wonderful they were, eaten here 
in the rock parlor, at the very foot of the moun- 
tains! And when the girls were thirsty — 
Ah! at the good hour! Here were Atli and 
Gretli. 

Down through the brown rocks, stepping as 
sturdily and easily as if on level ground, came 
the gigantic twins, Margoton’s brother and sis- 
ter; he bearing a shining milkcan, she a comb 
of golden honey in a blue bowl. This also 


28 


HONOR BRIGHT 


was a part of the regular programme. Never 
were twins more alike. Clip Gretli’s flaxen 
hair and put her into Atli’s white shirt, broad 
green breeches and worsted stockings ; furnish 
Atli with two heavy braids hanging to his 
waist, and dress him in bodice and petticoat — 
Madame asked you — was there a difference? 
They were superb, even Patricia allowed that. 
Their massive, regular features, their blue 
eyes, the flash of their white teeth, the ruddy 
brown of cheek and chin, contrasting with the 
milk-white strip of forehead when the shady 
hat came off — all this with the figure of a 
Norse viking and — ‘Ts there such a word as 
Vi-queen’?” asked Patricia. Soeur Sera- 
phine thought not: the idea, however, was ad- 
mirable. That was certainly what our good 
Atli and Gretli resembled. Vee-king! vee- 
quin — : ki — veen! my faith! That was dif- 
ficult, if you would! a majestic language, but 
of a complexity! 

Honor thought silently that they were more 


THE MOUNTAINEERS 


39 


like the Norse Gods: Baldur the Beautiful, 
Nanna the Fair: there was a story about them 
in a little brown book — 

Atli, all unconscious of either kinglike or 
godlike attributes, poured the rich, foaming 
milk into the tin cups held out by a dozen 
eager hands: Gretli dispensed the honey with 
golden smiles ; then the twins sat down simply, 
and had their share of galette^ brioche^ and all 
the rest of it, and answered the questions show- 
ered upon them by the two ladies. Yes, the 
cows were well, with thanks to the holy ladies 
for their interest; that is, the present time 
found them in health. La Dumaine had been 
ill in the spring: but desperately ill! They 
had despaired of her. During a week they 
had watched beside her as those expecting the 
end. She was good as bread, the poor suf- 
ferer; her moans were as eloquent as words. 
When she said ‘‘Moh!” one knew she had 
thirst, one brought water on the instant; when 
she sneezed, it expressed affection. 


40 


HONOR BRIGHT 


“It is that we understand!” said Gretli sim- 
ply; “she is our sister, do you see?” 

Atli nodded gravely. 

“It is like that!” he confirmed her. “We 
are all creatures of the good God. Few hu- 
man beings have the virtues of La Dumaine. 
The Duchesse, now, is of another quality; that 
cow is malicious, if you will. Figure to your- 
selves, my ladies, her endeavoring to snatch 
from our poor Dumaine the tuft of clover that 
I had found for her (with difficulty, for the 
season was late) and brought up from the val- 
ley. An evil beast! my faith, she was well 
paid for that, the Duchesse; good strokes of 
the cudgel rewarded her.” 

“And the goats?” asked Soeur Seraphine. 
“They have wintered well? The little white 
one lives always, that you named for me, kind 
young persons that you are?” 

The twins threw back their heads — their 
movements were apt to he not only identical 
but simultaneous — and their laughter rang 


THE MOUNTAINEERS 


41 


among the rocks; every one else laughed, too, 
from sheer infection of merriment. 

‘‘If she lives?” chuckled Atli. 

“The marvel is that others still survive!” 
cried Gretli. “It is we that owe you a thou- 
sand apologies, my Sister, for giving your holy 
and beautiful name to such a creature. She 
is mistress — what do I say? She is tyrant of 
the whole flock. She drives them before her 
like lambs of a month old; they have no peace, 
the unhappy ones. Only the two he-goats, 
old Moufflon himself, and his son, our hand- 
some Bimbo, can withstand her. These, also, 
however, she conquers, but with wiles, you 
understand. She has charm, la Seraphine; 
my faith, yes I Even Atli gives her her 
own way, when I would give her the stick 
rather.” 

“The creature!” said Atli indulgently. 
“She is of a beauty, my ladies! White as 
cream, and her eyes so dark and appealing. 
My ladies will graciously visit the chalet, as of 


42 


HONOR BRIGHT 


custom? There will be great rejoicing at 
sight of them.” 

But yes, said Madame; that was one of the 
chief pleasures of this happy day, long looked 
forward to. On the instant even, it would be 
well for them to begin the ascent. Already 
it was two o’clock, and the steamer left at five. 
Also, though young persons could imitate the 
goats in their manner of ascent, for those of 
advanced years it was necessary to allow time. 
Forward then, my children! to the chalet of 
the Rocks ! 

In the twinkling of an eye the baskets were 
repacked and safely stowed beneath an over- 
hanging rock; every scrap of paper and crust 
of bread picked up and burned, under Soeur 
Seraphine’s watchful eye; then the whole party 
began the ascent, Gretli leading the way with 
Soeur Seraphine, whose slight figure was as 
active as that of her namesake, Atli bringing 
up the rear, carefully guiding and supporting 
Madame Madeleine. Between the two cou- 


THE MOUNTAINEERS 


4S 


pies went the girls in a hubbub of delight, 
skipping, slipping, leaping, chattering French 
and English as they went. 

‘‘He is far more handsome than last year!” 
sighed Stephanie. “Regard his moustache, how 
it embellishes him! What king was that thou 
callest him, Patricia? Le roi Vi, nest-ce pas?'' 

“No king at all! The Vikings were sea- 
rovers, pretty much pirates, I suppose.” 

“Pirate? That is corsair?" asked Vivette, 
who was getting on nicely with her English. 
“My ancestor was a corsair of St. Malo. He 
captivated three British ships — ” 

“By his beauty?” asked Patricia. “You 
mean ‘captured,’ Vivi!” 

“Cap-ture, capti-vate, is it not the same 
thing? A captive, is he not captivated? 
How then?” 

“Catastrophe of a language!” murmured 
Stephanie, who detested English. 

“Hop, Froggy!” said Patricia and Maria 
in one breath. 


44 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Seeing battle imminent, Honor broke in 
hastily, "‘Oh, look, girls! Regarde, Stepha- 
nie! The chalet! Race to it!” 

No more words were spoken. Panting, 
breathless, the girls pressed on. Soon they 
overtook Gretli and Soeur Seraphine, and 
some would have passed them, but Patricia 
made an imperious gesture. 

“Manners?” she suggested; “one doesn’t 
rush ahead of one’s hostess, I think; or does 
one, Stephanie?” 

Honor did wish they would not quarrel so. 
Of course Patricia was right, but — she slid 
her hand into Stephanie’s, and they dropped 
back behind the others. 

“I hate her!” said Stephanie. 

“No, you don’t,” said Honor stoutly. 
“You dislike her, and that is a pity, because 
she is splendid, and if you didn’t dislike her, 
you would like her so tremendously; but you 
don’t hate her.” 

“The same thing!” muttered Stephanie. 


THE MOUNTAINEERS 


45 


‘‘No!” Honor’s cheek flushed and her 
eyes flashed. “To dislike, that conies to 
every one; to hate, that is wicked, and the good 
God is vexed.” 

“My children,” called Soeur Seraphine. 
“Behold us arrived! forward then! Our 
Gretli has a surprise for us, of which I learn 
but on the instant. Follow me!” 


CHAPTER IV 


THE OUTGOING 

The Chalet des Rochers (I hope it is still 
standing!) wore an air of high festivity. 
Garlands wreathed the open door and swung 
in festoons from the low thatched roof. 
Around the door stood a group of young men 
and maidens, all in the old-time Swiss cos- 
tume, one of the prettiest in the world; the 
girls with dark bodices laced over the full 
white blouse, short full skirts of bright green, 
blue or red, snowy stockings and well-blacked 
shoes; the youths in knee-breeches, white 
shirts, short jackets and pointed hats. 

‘‘Are we at the Opera Comique?'’ whis- 
pered Patricia. “They will begin to yodel in 
a moment!” 

And they did! As the School advanced, 
the whole group broke out in — song, shall I 

46 


THE OUTGOING 


47 


say? Certainly into a sound as musical as it 
was strange. ‘‘A-i! o-oh! u-u-u — ” No! it 
may not be described. It must be heard, and 
heard in the mountains. 

“It is the Ranz des V aches cried Soeur 
Seraphine. “I heard it — how many years 
ago? When I was a little young girl! What 
pleasure ! what delight ! What means this, 
my Gretli?” 

Gretli’s face was aglow; she clapped her 
hands and laughed, joyously. 

“It is the Spring Festival, my Sister!” she 
cried. “The festival of the Outgoing, when 
the animals go to the mountain pastures. 
Hearing that the gracious Ladies would be 
with us to-day, we held back the outgoing that 
they might see. These are our neighbors, 
come to help us and join our simple feast. 
Marie, Madelon, Jeanne, here are the gracious 
Ladies of whom you have heard so much. 
Ah! a la bonne heure! And here is our Zitli 
himself to welcome you.” 


48 


HONOR BRIGHT 


A boy stood in the doorway, beaming wel- 
come; a boy of fifteen, also wearing the 
gay Swiss dress, but otherwise contrasting 
strangely with the stalwart, sunburnt shep- 
herds and farm maidens. He leaned on 
crutches; his face was white and drawn, with 
lines of pain that should not belong to so 
young a creature ; yet no face in all the group 
shone more brightly than that of Zitli, the 
younger brother, the joy and pride of the 
mighty Twins. 

Now Atli hastened forward to bring stools 
for the Ladies. Soon the whole group was 
established before the chalet, the Ladies sit- 
ting in dignity on their stools, the girls at their 
feet, on rugs and shawls carefully spread by 
the Twins and their friends; “To protect from 
dampness!” explained Gretli. “And from 
chill!” chimed in Atli. “My faith! our 
Mountain’s heart is warm, but his bones are 
cold. Now! my ladies find themselves in 
comfort? At the good hour! The creatures 


THE OUTGOING 


49 


become impatient. Hark to la Duchesse! 
That one is in a temper!” 

An angry bellow was heard from the farm- 
yard, where we could see white horns tossing 
over the rough stone wall. It was answered 
by a ‘‘Moo!” in a very different tone: a moo 
full of quiet dignity, with a touch of rebuke. 

“Well done!” cried Gretli. “La Dumaine 
responds; she puts that other in her place. 
Is it not well done, friends?” 

There was a general murmur of applause, 
amid which Atli, making a sign, vanished into 
the yard, followed by the other young men. 
Presently the sound of bells was heard, first 
one, then another, then a chime, all on differ- 
ent notes, all in harmony. A lovely melody ! 
And now the girls, led by Gretli’s powerful 
voice, began to sing: a quaint air, with quainter 
words, which may be roughly translated as 
follows : 

“Ten young maidens fair and free; 

All the ten would married be: 


50 


HONOR BRIGHT 


There was Dine, there was Chine, 

There was Claudine and Marline; 

Ah! ah! Cath’rinette and Cath’rina: 

There was beautiful Suzon; 

Duchess fair of Montbazon; 

There was Celimene; 

There was La Dumaine.” 

As they sang, the farmyard gate opened, 
and out came the cows. Usually the herd was 
already in the mountain pastures by the time 
of the Birthday Fete; the School had never 
seen it before. Honor gazed in silent won- 
der and delight at the superb creature who 
led the way: a cow white as cream, graceful 
as a deer, holding her head like a queen. 
Round her neck was a broad collar of leather, 
richly embroidered in bright-colored silks, 
from which hung a large bell. As she moved, 
she tossed her beautiful head, and the deep 
mellow notes of the bell rang out sweetly on 
the quiet air. ‘‘Ting! ling-a-ling! ling-a- 
ling!” 

“Ling-ling!” responded another bell! an- 


THE OUTGOING 


51 


other, and another. The two cows following 
the leader were also beauties: one a delicate 
fawn color with white feet and a white star 
on her forehead; the other — 

‘‘But this is the Purple Cow!” cried Pa- 
tricia. 


‘‘ ‘I never saw a purple cow, 

I never thought to see one!’ 

But now I do!” 

Honor had never read “The Lark,” never, 
poor Continental child, so much as heard of 
it; but there was no doubt about it; here was 
a purple cow, or one of so deeply violet-tinted 
a gray that purple was the one idea suggested. 

“What an original tint has this!” cried Ma- 
dame Madeleine. “And what a beauty! 
Truly, Gretli, she rivals La Dumaine herself!” 

As if she understood the words, the purple 
cow flung up her head with an angry move- 
ment; then lowering it, jostled rudely against 
the leader as if trying to push past her. La 


52 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Dumaine paid no heed, but continued to ad- 
vance slowly, her beautiful eyes turned lov- 
ingly toward Atli, who walked beside her, his 
arm on her neck. The fawn-colored cow, 
however, with a quiet but firm shove of her 
powerful shoulder, jostled the purple one back 
into her place. 

‘‘Aha!” cried Gretli. “Well done, Celi- 
mene! This, my ladies, is a creature of dis- 
cernment, and of judgment. Celimene, I am 
content with thee, my friend!” 

The purple cow bellowed angrily; Gretli 
replied with asperity, “As for thee, thou wilt 
do well to be silent. No one desires speech 
of thee, be assured!” 

“What is her name?” asked Patricia. 
“The purple one; she is the handsomest of all, 
I think.” 

“It is the Duchesse de Montbazon, Made- 
moiselle! An animal of beauty, as all ac- 
knowledge, but of an evil and envious dispo- 
sition. Her jealousy of La Dumaine passes 



“ ATLI . . . WALKED BESIDE HER, HIS ARM ON HER NECK ’’ 





• % 


■ 1 






/■ 


j4‘ 




^sr 


•*v « 

/ * 





i-'*" 


m.’-- 


% 

.r ’ . 

‘■a • 

■ ♦• 

» 

IT * 

♦ 

« 




. ♦ . 

1 

'^'l* V 

%’ 

• 4 :Xt:^ 

**4V 

ItC , 

•W ' 


^ ■ 


1 


1. 

• 




'v*^ '•^■* 

"V • 


■■ 'i’St-.' . 

- 


C*j - 

- ’"f i 

V • <»=‘ ^ 


1 

1^ '# -••■ 

-• 

9 

. *3 

1 ^ z «J* 

■ * - 

•% 


-V: 


'srC'’ 

V Jt V 

«• 

"i 1^ 





': ^ 'V^. ■ ■•;■■- ■^' ' " -'.v 

"> • *' “ 'TV^i u\ ■ _*“ ' .'."f,. jS*'V3Bi-'‘ ■•■•-r'’- '■ • 


'- y >*r4 ^ 

■■*"■ ■■ ' ■ 



♦ •- 





A 


■ 

V ^ 






* - » 


i: 




&m 7 ” -^ • • . r- ■** • 

♦ m^M I 


'«»*-''*■■■>'■" j* '■'^/ a- ' •• ■ A' ' 


• ^ A. %»?• 

, ^ .S V- . \»r ... ■:•■* T __„ 


‘M 




- 5 ^. 








«. «* 4» 


THE OUTGOING 


53 


bounds. The truth is, two years ago our be- 
loved Queen had an illness, was not able to 
seek the mountains with the rest. Wishing 
to be entirely just, we allowed La Duchesse to 
lead the herd, as in beauty and in quality of 
milk she properly ranked next. Figure to 
yourself that a month later, when Atli led the 
wholly-recovered Dumaine to the mountain 
pasture, this one refused to yield her place. 
She roared, she tore up the ground — there was 
a scene, I promise you! Atli was forced to 
belabor her well with the milking-stool before 
she could be brought — I say not to reason, — 
she is incapable of it — but to simple obedi- 
ence. There again our worthy Celimene was 
of assistance; she, loving La Dumaine like a 
sister, advanced to the attack of that other, 
who was threatening our queen in a manner 
wholly savage, and overthrew her.” 

‘‘Ah!” cried a shrill voice behind her. 
“That was a thing to see ! Paff ! and there she 
rolled, the four legs in the air.” 


64 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Gretli turned smiling to the boy who, lean- 
ing always on his crutches, rubbed his hands 
with delight, while a glow spread over his pale 
face. 

“Thou saw^ St it, Zitli, didst thou not?” she 
said approvingly. “As thou sayst, it was a 
thing to see. Regard, my Ladies! La Du- 
maine comes to pay her respects to our hon- 
ored guests!” 

Stepping daintily over the short turf, guided 
by Atli’s hand on her neck, the beautiful crea- 
ture advanced to within a few paces of the 
group before the door, and stretching her 
neck, sniffed inquiringly, fixing her great vio- 
let-brown eyes on Soeur Seraphine with an 
appealing look. 

“Beautiful one!” the little Sister patted the 
snowy muzzle gently. “What wouldst thou ?” 

Zitli thrust into her hand a saucer contain- 
ing a lump of salt. “She desires bonbons!” 
he said. “Behold the bonbons of La Du- 
maine, my Ladies!” 


THE OUTGOING 


55 


Honor, curled up at the Sister’s feet, 
watched entranced as the pink tongue curled 
eagerly round the salt. She was in such a 
state of wonderment and rapture, she was con- 
scious of nothing save the cows ; but suddenly 
a hand clutched hers, and a voice whispered, 

“Moriole, I faint! I die! I can bear no 
more!” 

Honor, turning in amazement, beheld 
Stephanie, white as chalk, her eyes starting 
from their sockets, her teeth absolutely chat- 
tering. 

“But what is it?” she cried. “Stephanie, 
what ails thee? My Sister, Stephanie is ill!” 

“My child!” Soeur Seraphine turned in 
anxiety. “You find yourself ill?” 

“She’s afraid of the cows!” said Patricia 
bluntly. 

“But no! of these gentle creatures? Can 
it be? Come, my child! Lay your hand on 
the beautiful head ! Observe her gentleness ! 
A lamb is less mild!” 


56 


HONOR BRIGHT 


She tried to draw Stephanie toward her: 
and in so doing drew back the saucer a little. 
La Dumaine pursued it, snuffing and blowing 
appreciatively: at this Stephanie uttered a 
wild shriek, and springing up, rushed to one 
side to escape the terrible animal, who, she 
cried out, would devour her. 

Alas ! Stephanie had recently had a pres- 
ent of a scarlet parasol, of which she was in- 
ordinately proud. So proud that she had 
brought it with her to the fete^ regardless of 
the gibes of the other girls. In her sidewise 
rush, the parasol, still clutched in her hand, 
was presented full to the view of the Duchess 
of Montbazon, within two feet of her purple 
nose. The Duchess, in no mood to endure 
this, lowered her head with a furious bellow, 
and leaving her place in the ranks, advanced 
upon Stephanie, who fled with shrieks that 
rent the air. The other cows, startled, hud- 
dled together: at the rear, Le Roi, the splen- 
did young bull, raised his great head, crowned 


THE OUTGOING 


57 


with the milking-stool, and uttered a loud moo 
of inquiry. 

It was a bad moment; but Atli and the 
Queen were equal to the emergency. A touch 
on the neck, a word in the ear; La Dumaine 
turned from her ‘‘bonbons” and with regal 
pace and head lifted high, started across the 
plot of greensward and up the track that led to 
the mountain pasture. After a moment’s 
confusion, the other cows, aided by voice and 
hand of the farm maidens, followed in their 
regular order. Gretli rescued the shrieking 
Stephanie and carried her bodily into the 
house. The shepherds, shouting with laugh- 
ter, corralled the Duchess of Montbazon in a 
corner of the yard, and drove her, still bellow- 
ing rage and defiance, after the herd. She fol- 
lowed for some paces behind Le Roi, who, con- 
scious of his duty to guard the rear, turned 
his head frequently to utter snorts of rebuke 
and remonstrance. Finally, jealousy and am- 
bition triumphed over the sulks. Breaking 


58 


HONOR BRIGHT 


into a clumsy gallop, La Duchesse plunged 
past the bull, past Dine and Chine, Claudine, 
Martine and the rest, and shouldered her way 
in behind La Dumaine and beside Celimene. 
The former pursued her serene way, taking no 
notice; the latter — well, cows cannot laugh, 
but Celimene’s carriage was very expressive 
as with a whisk of her tail and a ‘‘wallop” of 
her hind-quarters, she made place for the rebel 
beside her. So the herd swept out and away, 
Atli still walking beside his Queen: and after 
them, shouting and laughing, went the neigh- 
bor boys and girls, to finish their holiday with 
a feast of curds and whey, cheese and black 
bread, in the mountain pasture. 


CHAPTER V 


BIMBO 

The living room (kitchen, sitting room and 
dining room in one) of the Chalet was also 
in festal trim as Gretli ushered her guests in ; 
good, faithful Gretli, who had planned all, 
gladly giving up her part in the mountain 
feast for the sake of entertaining her ‘hon- 
ored patrons” and their pupils. The floor 
was white with scrubbing; the little windows 
gleamed like diamonds ; the sunbeams darting 
through them made lively play among the 
brass and copper vessels ranged on the dresser, 
or hanging on the whitewashed walls. 

The only dark thing in the room was the 
fireplace, and that had a good right to its warm 
sootiness. All about it hung hams and 
flitches of bacon, and strings of sausages, the 


60 


HONOR BRIGHT 


pride of the thrifty Twins: there was bread, 
too, though some people might not have recog- 
nized it in the large flat round cakes with a 
hole in the middle, strung on ropeyarn and 
hanging in festoons from the rafters. Ma- 
dame Madeleine glanced upward and nodded 
approval. 

‘‘A fine showing, my Gretli! Thou hast 
provision for many winters there.” 

Gretli beamed with modest pride. ‘‘We 
do our possible!” she said. “Atli is indeed 
a marvel of strength and industry; and we 
have our Zitli!” she added, glancing at the 
lame boy, a lovely look in her face. “With- 
out Zitli, where should we be? He turns the 
hams, he keeps the fire at the proper height, 
he stuffs the sausages; unaided he does it! 
As for the cheese — it is well known that he 
is called the little Prince of Cheesemakers. 
Let my gracious Ladies descend, if they will 
have the condescension, and inspect the cheese 
room!” 


BIMBO 


61 


The cheese room was dark and cool — 
and dripping! No ice in mountain chalets, 
but through the middle of the room ran a 
little crystal stream whose water needed no 
ice. 

‘Tt comes down from the Alps!” Zitli ex- 
plained. ‘‘My brother persuaded it, with a 
wooden conduit; my faith, the good Nix was 
willing enough ; ever since then she sends her 
stream; in the dryest summer, it never fails. 
No other chalet has such a stream. It is be- 
cause of the virtue of my brother and sister!” 
he added simply. 

“Zitli!” Gretli spoke in gentle reproof. 
“These are not words to say before honorable 
guests, though I love thee for them, my little 
one. See, my ladies! here stand the pans, 
thus, on either side the stream; these are for 
the cream cheeses, the other for those of milk 
alone. Observe now the cheeses ! ” 

She led the way proudly to the end of the 
room — it was really more like a cavern — 


62 


HONOR BRIGHT 


where, on broad shelves, stood the great round 
cheeses, tier on tier, all neatly marked with 
date and weight. 

“I didn’t suppose there was so much cheese 
in the world!” said Honor. 

Gretli laughed merrily. ‘‘My faith, made- 
moiselle! Twice in the year we send forth 
this quantity, from this one chalet, by no 
means one of the largest of this Alp.” 

“But assuredly one of the best!” said Ma- 
dame Madeleine. 

“Madame is kindness in person! We do 
our possible. Consider then, mademoiselle, 
that in fifty chMets on this single Alp, equal 
numbers or larger are made, are sent out twice 
in the year; and that there are countless Alps 
in our dear country; mademoiselle sees, with- 
out doubt, that there is no danger of the world 
being without cheese. Look! on this shelf, 
behold the little cheeses of cream, called Neuf- 
chatel from that good town where first they 
were produced. If Madame permits, we 


BIMBO 


63 


would like, Zitli and I, to present to each of 
the demoiselles one of these small objects.” 

‘‘Oh!” cried the girls in chorus. “Oh, 
Gretli! Oh, Madame, may we?” 

Madame looked doubtful. “It is too 
much — ” she began. 

“With respect!” cried Gretli. “They are 
made entirely of cream; is it not so, Zitli? 
Yesterday we made them, Zitli and I, expressly 
for our demoiselles. Quite frankly, the new- 
born infant might eat them without injury. 
They are even thought to be stomachic in their 
quality.” 

“That was far from being my thought,” 
Madame explained graciously. “I feared we 
might rob you, my Gretli ; but since you have 
made this charming present for my pupils — 
come, my children! you have permission to 
accept — not forgetting, I trust, the thanks that 
are due!” 

A chorus of delight and thanks broke out, 
as the neat little rolls of silver-papered cheese, 


64 


HONOR BRIGHT 


each stamped Chalet des Rochers, were dealt 
out. Maria Patterson and Vivette proposed 
to eat theirs on the spot; Loulou tried to stuff 
hers into her pocket. 

Gretli offered a better suggestion. ‘This 
basket,” she said, “will hold all, and my young 
ladies will, I trust, enjoy at their supper the 
little fruits of the Chalet. For the moment, 
I will ask you to mount once more to the 
room.” 

Then, bending down from her towering 
height, she whispered in Honor’s ear. “In 
the basket is already a fromage Camembert 
for the evening repast of my Ladies. It is 
their favorite cheese; we send it, Atli, Zitli 
and I, as a little surprise. Mademoiselle under- 
stands.” 

Honor nodded comprehension, and took the 
basket, in which the silver rolls were now 
neatly stored. 

Zitli had preceded them some minutes ago, 
up the ladder-stair which led down to the 


BIMBO 


65 


cheese room. As they came up blinking into 
the strong sunlight, they saw his beaming face 
behind a little table, on which was a plate of 
curious little biscuits or cookies stamped in 
the shape of a cow, a glass pitcher of rich 
cream, and a number of little wooden bowls 
and spoons. 

‘‘Oh! oh! oh!” cried the girls in chorus. 

“A little gouterF^ (luncheon) Gretli has- 
tened forward to explain. “Before making 
the descent! My Ladies remember well the 
biscuits des Rockers^ to be eaten with cream; 
sustaining, you observe, and wholesome — ah! 
par example 

“Remember them!” cried Soeur Seraphine. 
“Could we forget? Regard, my children! 
When we were young girls of your age, the 
good grandmother of our friends prepared this 
feast yearly for us. We came with our hon- 
ored parents, now in glory; it is to make weep 
with pleasure and remembrance, the sight of 
them!” 


66 


HONOR BRIGHT 


And indeed, the little Sister actually wiped 
a tear from her blue eyes. 

Tears were far from the eyes of Honor, Pa- 
tricia, and the rest, as they clustered round the 
table. It is highly improbable that any of my 
readers ever tasted the cream of the Chalet des 
Rochers; I, therefore, declare boldly that they 
do not know what cream is. As for the bis- 
cuits, made of cream and honey and wheat 
flour — they also are not to be described. 

“And how do you make them like a cow?” 
asked little Loulou, a newcomer to the school. 
^'Tiens! they resemble La Dumaine!” 

Gretli cast a proud glance at her brother, 
who blushed crimson and dropped his eyes. 

“It is a portrait of our Queen!” she said. 
“Behold the cutter, carved by our Zitli. All 
unconscious. La Dumaine sat — I should rather 
say stood — for her portrait — while he carved 
it. The former one, made by our honored 
grandfather in his youth, had lost its clear- 
ness of outline; through age and long use, you 


BIMBO 


67 


understand. Nor — with respect to our ven- 
erable ancestor be it said — did it ever equal in 
beauty the present one.” 

I trust that the Madeleine ties ^ as the Vevay 
children called our girls, were no more greedy 
than other young persons of their age. They 
had certainly eaten a great deal of luncheon 
barely two hours before; yet they fell upon the 
biscuits and cream, and on the shining combs 
of honey which supplemented them, ‘‘as if 
after a three days’ fast,” said Soeur Seraphine 
in gentle reproof. 

''Voyons! they are young!” said motherly 
Madame Madeleine. 

“It is like that!” cried Gretli, who was man- 
ifestly enjoying every mouthful they ate. 
“Youth, my Ladies,” (Gretli was twenty- 
two!), “demands nutrition. If simple and 
wholesome, can there be too much of it? For 
example ! did my Sister ever try to fill a young 
goat to repletion? There, if you will, is glut- 
tony!” 


68 


HONOR BRIGHT 


The little feast over, Madame declared that 
it was time to begin the descent. They must 
go slowly, more slowly even than in ascend- 
ing, and they had no more than time to reach 
the pier in good time. Every one knew that 
Madame’s ‘‘good time” meant a full half hour 
before the boat started, so it was without too 
much haste that the girls took leave of Zitli 
and the chalet. Gretli, as they knew, would 
see them safe at the foot of the Alp before 
saying good-by. 

“Oh!” said Honor, as they came out on the 
green space before the house, “but we have 
not seen the goats, Gretli!” 

la bonne heureT said Gretli. “And on 
the instant. Mademoiselle Honor, here the 
creatures come!” 

The goats knew it was not yet supper-time. 
Very leisurely they came up the track, old 
Moufflon in advance, young Bimbo bringing 
up the rear. Between them the she-goats, 
twenty or thirty of them, straggled along, stop- 


BIMBO 


69 


ping here to nibble a tuft of grass or clover, 
there to investigate a bush or stone. They 
are inquisitive creatures, goats. Now and 
then a shrill bleat was heard, and some goat 
would canter a few paces ahead, then fall to 
nibbling again. 

‘Tt is Seraphine who annoys them!” Gretli 
said. ‘‘The creature! Look, my demoiselles. 
Nanni, her own aunt, you observe, has found 
a green tuft of the most succulent, and begins 
to take her pleasure. Now in a moment — 
regard! comes la Seraphine! biff! it is over! 
Poor Nanni flies, and that one enjoys the mor- 
sel. My faith, she is really of an evil nature, 
the Seraphine, and gluttonous beyond descrip- 
tion. Again, I make my heartfelt apologies 
to my Sister for giving her holy name to this 
creature. For example! if I had named La 
Dumaine for her, now, it would be differ- 
ent!” 

Soeur Seraphine laughed heartily at the 
antics of her namesake, and declared that she 


70 


HONOR BRIGHT 


had had much the same disposition in her 
youth. “But not the beauty!” she added. 
“As Atli says, it is difficult to be severe with so 
charming a creature.” 

“It’s funny that the best cow and the worst 
goat should be white, isn’t it?” said Vivette. 

“As mademoiselle says I A thing very curi- 
ous. Bimbo, now 1 a black goat may by right 
be mischievous, is it not so, my ladies? Yet 
Bimbo also is handsome, we think.” 

As if he heard and understood. Bimbo, the 
young he-goat, lifted his head, and reconnoi- 
tered the party standing on the green; then, 
slowly and with an air of elaborate careless- 
ness, he detached himself from the flock, and 
began a circuitous approach, pausing to nibble 
— or to make a pretence of nibbling — at every 
other step. He was jet black, with white 
horns and hoofs; a superb animal, already 
larger than Moufflon, his father and leader. 

“He is a beauty I” said Patricia. “I should 
like to have a pair of him to drive, wouldn’t 


BIMBO 


71 


you, Moriole? We’d take Stephanie out — 
and upset her into the lake!” she added in an 
undertone. 

Stephanie did not hear her. Her eyes were 
fixed in terror on the advancing flock, and 
especially on Moufflon, a goat of great dignity, 
with wide-branching horns and a notable 
beard. 

Stephanie was naturally afraid of all ani- 
mals. Their size mattered little; a cow or a 
mouse threw her into almost equal agonies 
of terror. Indeed, the mouse was the more 
to be dreaded of the two, since — horror! it 
could, and certainly would if given the oppor- 
tunity — run up one’s sleeve, in which case one 
would die on the spot, on the instant. More- 
over, the poor child’s nerves had been thor- 
oughly upset by the Purple Cow episode 
(which naughty Patricia was already turning 
into verse in her mind!). She had made up 
her mind that Moufflon meant to attack her. 
Pressing close to Gretli’s side, shaking in 


72 


HONOR BRIGHT 


every limb, she kept her eyes fixed on him in 
the fascination of terror. Ah! but she did not 
notice — nobody noticed Bimbo! Gretli her- 
self, keeping a watchful eye on the mischiev- 
ous Seraphine, prepared to check and punish 
any outbreak on the part of that obstreperous 
young beauty, had no eye for the black goat, 
quietly circling to the rear of the party, quietly 
moving forward, with a sharp glance now and 
then through his forelock. If any one had 
cast a glance at Bimbo, he would have been 
seen nibbling grass, serenely unconscious; the 
catastrophe might have come just the same: 
but no one did cast a glance. 

Presently, Madame Madeleine called Gretli 
to her, to ask some question about the descent. 
Gretli, stepping forward some paces, left 
Stephanie for the moment standing alone, still 
holding the unlucky' red parasol. Directly in 
front of her stood Honor, her eyes fixed on 
the mountains, lost in a dream of the Norse 
gods. Bimbo’s moment had arrived. Two 


BIMBO 


73 


at a time ! glorious sport. Lowering his head, 
he advanced at a smart gallop. Biff! bang! 
a wild shriek rang out. Stephanie and Honor 
were rolling together at the feet of Soeur 
Seraphine, and the others, turning in bewilder- 
ment, saw the black goat quietly nibbling 
grass, apparently unconscious of them and of 
the world. 

Stephanie sprang up and rushed sobbing 
and screaming to throw herself into the tender 
arms of Madame Madeleine. Honor lay still. 
The air was black and full of sparks; there 
was a pain somewhere, a rather sickening pain. 

Gretli and Soeur Seraphine ran to raise her, 
and she uttered a little cry. 

‘Tt’s all right!” she said. ‘T hit my head, 
I think, and my ankle — but it’s all right!” 
Here she tried to get up, and instead crumpled 
into a little heap and fainted away. 


CHAPTER VI 

IN THE CHALET OF THE ROCKS 

When Honor opened her eyes, it was to look 
round her in amazement. Where was she? 
Certainly not at home in the Maison Made- 
leine. This bed, with its fragrant sheets of 
coarse heavy linen and its wonderful quilt, was 
not her own, nor was the little room with its 
bare white walls and dormer windows. 

A quaint little room, homely, yet friendly. 
Along one wall ran a shelf, on which were 
many pieces of wood-carving, some of exqui- 
site delicacy. Honor’s still-bewildered eyes 
rested with delight on a miniature chalet, with 
tiny cattle and goats, half the length of her 
little finger, browsing round it, with a fairy 
sennerin smiling in the doorway. A wonder- 
ful piece of work it seemed to her. There 

74 


IN THE CHALET OF THE ROCKS 75 


must be a very skilful carver here. The 
wooden bedstead on which she lay was carved 
too, and its four tall posts were surmounted 
by four heads, with smiling, friendly faces. 
What a curious, delightful place ! 

'‘Where am I?” said Honor. 

Soeur Seraphine was bending over her, her 
face full of tender anxiety. 

"Thank God!” she said. "My little one, 
you are yourself again, is it not so? But no 1” 
she added, as Honor tried to rise, and sank 
back with a little moan. "It is to lie quite 
still, my child! You have sprained your 
ankle, and must remain tranquil till it restores 
itself. Our Gretli will care for you, as ten- 
derly as we ourselves could do. A few days 
only; then Atli will fashion a carrying chair 
and bring you down the mountain and home 
to us. Madame left her fondest love for you ; 
she was forced to go, you understand, and now 
I must follow, lest the boat depart without me. 
My child, with no one save Gretli and Atli 


76 


HONOR BRIGHT 


could we possibly have left thee, thou knowest 
that. The ankle is well bandaged, and Gretli 
is a skilful nurse; adieu, my little Honor! 
Thou wilt be good and not unhappy? 
Adieu!” 

The Sister’s kind blue eyes were full of tears 
as she kissed Honor’s forehead and hurried 
away. A few moments after, Gretli appeared, 
and sat down by the bedside with an air of 
business-like cheerfulness. 

"‘VoildF^ she said. ‘T have seen her well 
started, the holy Sister. My faith, she is a 
good mountaineer; she leaps like a goat. She 
will soon overtake Madame, who, being of a 
certain age, must proceed more cautiously. 
And how does mademoiselle find herself? 
Not too ill, I hope?” 

Honor was still looking about her in a be- 
wildered fashion. ‘T am all right,” she said, 
“only my head aches, and my ankle hurts 
when I try to move. What happened, Gretli? 
Did somebody knock me down? Why?” 


IN THE CHALET OF THE ROCKS 77 


‘‘That,” said Gretli, “is a thing known only 
to the good God, who created goats. With 
sorrow and shame I avow it. Mademoiselle 
Honor; Bimbo, that child of Satan, attacked 
Mademoiselle Stephanie, from the rear, you 
understand, with a violence not to be credited 
had one not seen it. She was flung forward 
upon you, who stood before her; a loose stone, 
it would appear, turned under your foot. 
You fell to the ground, striking your head on 
another stone. I ran to raise you ; you 
swooned in my arms, poor child. Ah! what 
confusion! Mademoiselle Stephanie shriek- 
ing to the skies that she was killed; Zitli be- 
laboring the misguided beast with his crutch; 
the demoiselles clustering together in affright; 
my Ladies full of anxiety and distress. What 
would you? It was the hour of departure; 
there is no other boat to-day, and though all 
would be more than welcome to the ChMet, 
they could not pass the night in comfort. 

“They proposed to carry you between them, 


78 HONOR BRIGHT 

these benevolent ladies; I respectfully begged 
them to reconsider. ‘Leave the little one’ — 
I demand pardon, mademoiselle; it is only yes- 
terday, it appears, that I carry you in my arms ! 
— ‘leave her with us!’ I said. ‘My faith, I 
am well used to the care of sprains; she will 
be safe as in Ste. Genevieve’s pocket. I will 
give her soup of cream and onion with cheese, 
a restorative not worse than another; for her 
amusement Zitli will tell stories — but, par ex- 
ample! he is a story-teller, that little one! 
The creatures will all be at her feet, except 
that ruffian Bimbo, who will not be suffered 
to approach her. By and by, when all is well, 
Atli will carry her down the mountain like an 
egg of glass, will deposit her by your side. Et 
voilaF My Ladies perceived the reasonable- 
ness of the idea. They wept, but finally con- 
sented to leave their cherished pupil to make a 
good and beautiful recovery in the Chalet des 
Rockers, Finally, mademoiselle, behold us 
here, three of us — four, when Atli returns to- 


IN THE CHALET OF THE ROCKS 79 


morrow from the higher Alp. We shall do 
well, is it not so? And now, to prepare the 
soup ! It will be good, I promise you !” 

Left alone. Honor looked round her, and 
tried to take in the situation. She remem- 
bered the sudden impact of some soft body — 
that was poor Stephanie, of course; then — 
crash! a sharp blow from something hard 
— that was the stone ! — a shower of stars, red, 
blue, green, — then darkness. That was all, 
till this wonderful awakening to find herself 
in the chalet of her dreams, among the great 
mountains themselves. Ah! there they were; 
close, it seemed, outside the little window. 
Without moving her head, she saw a green 
giant towering, and behind him, looking over 
his shoulder, a white one. 

“The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts!” 

Certainly Honor’s thoughts were long to- 
day. Lying there in the narrow bed, they 
floated back to the wonderful day — was it a 


80 


HONOR BRIGHT 


week ago, or a month? — ^when she had, as she 
solemnly declared to herself, ‘‘discovered the 
mountains.” 

It all came, curiously enough, from English 
Literature. The mountains had always been 
there, but somehow she had taken them for 
granted, while the four walls of her room held 
the thrilling drama she enacted with Angelique 
and Fiordispina. She could recall the very 
day when she first came to her mountain 
world. She was in the garden, studying her 
English Literature. Soeur Seraphine was a 
great lover of English poetry, and the pupils, 
French and Anglo-Saxon, must, she main- 
tained, be thoroughly grounded in the lan- 
guage of “Ze grand Shekspire et le sublime 
Meel-ton,^^ This was hard on Stephanie, to 
whom English was, as she expressed it, like 
throwing all the fire-irons downstairs together. 
Patricia Desmbnd, who had a keen sense of the 
ludicrous, had difficulty sometimes in keeping 
the twinkle out of her beautiful eyes and the 


IN THE CHALET OF THE ROCKS 81 


smile from the corners of her perfect mouth, 
when dear Soeur Seraphine, erect as a little 
gray marionette on the estrade, recited, for ex- 
ample, the ‘‘Ancient Mariner”: 

“Eet ees un ancien marinere, 

And ’e stopess von of sree; 

‘By zy longre birrd and gleetring eye, 

No verefore stopp’st zou me?’ ” 

Honor saw nothing funny in it; French- 
English was as natural to her as the Anglo- 
Saxon variety; she thrilled with Soeur Sera- 
phine, her romantic little soul went forth with 
the Mariner over the perilous seas ; for her as 
for him, the fair wind blew, the white foam 
flew, the furrow followed free. 

“Ve vare ze foorst zat evare boorst — ” 

shrilled Soeur Seraphine — “If necessary, 
Patricia, go, my child!” 

For Patricia had flung up an imploring 
hand and burst into a fit of coughing; she now 
scuttled (her own word, not mine!) from the 


82 


HONOR BRIGHT 


room, and gaining the shelter of her own, flung 
herself on the bed in paroxysms of laughter. 

Honor did not stir; she was hardly conscious 
of the interruption. The “silent sea” ab- 
sorbed her, soul and body. 

The “Choix de Poesies Anglaises” contained 
two other poems by Coleridge, “Kubla Khan” 
and the “Hymn at Sunrise in the Valley of 
Chamounix.” Honor already knew the for- 
mer by heart ; she was learning the latter, and 
had permission to study in the garden. Sit- 
ting on the bench under the great pear-tree, 
she murmured the opening lines over and over, 
all unconsciously following the familiar pro- 
nunciation. 

“Hast zou a sharm to stay ze momingstar 
In his stipp courrse?” 

She lifted her eyes. 

It was not Mont Blanc that towered in the 
distance across the blue lake, but the Dent du 
Midi, white and austere. It was not the morn- 


IN THE CHALET OF THE ROCKS 83 


ing star, but Hesperus, that glittered in the 
rosy sunset light: but these details did not 
matter. The spirit of the mountains seemed 
to pass into the child’s heart; it seemed to be 
herself, not the poet, who was chanting the 
great Hymn. 

At first, it was as if she had never seen them 
before; she could only gaze and wonder. By 
and by they grew familiar again, but with a 
difference; they were her friends now, be- 
loved and reverenced. Soon she began to 
weave webs of fancy about and about them, as 
was her way about everything. 

The Dent du Midi himself was a vast giant; 
like Atlas, only snow-white, instead of earth- 
brown as she had always pictured the latter. 
He was not a king, Mont Blanc was the king, 
as “Lor’ Birron” told her in the one specimen 
of his poetry enshrined in the Choix. “Mont 
Blanc is the monarch of mountains: they 
crowned him long ago”; yes, doubtless. But 
the Dent was one of the great princes of his 


84 


HONOR BRIGHT 


court; held indeed a court of his own, with the 
Dent d'Oche and the Dent de Morche for his 
attendant dukes or marquises, and a host of 
other nobles who wore green robes under their 
white stoles. Some of these were lady-moun- 
tains, Honor loved to think; lovely maidens, 
with flashing jewels (those were the streams 
that danced and shone in the sunlight) and 
delicate trailing robes and veils of mist. They 
ministered to the Prince, singing to him with 
their musical voices — the streams again: it 
was quite simple to change them from jewels 
to voices — veiling and unveiling their beauty 
at his pleasure. But in the evening, the great 
star, Hesperus, who was Venus herself, Ma- 
dame Madeleine said (which one did not un- 
derstand, but that did not matter) rose out 
of the sunset over the Prince’s shoulder, kissed 
him, hovered radiant above him; and then the 
mountain maidens bowed their heads under 
their white veils and paid homage to their 
Queen. 


IN THE CHALET OF THE ROCKS 85 


All this Honor had dreamed, sitting there 
in the garden, when she ought to have been 
studying. 

The dream came back to her to-night, with 
power; it seemed to fill the world. They were 
not, they could not be, mere masses of earth, 
these glorious forms towering into the sky. 
They surely were mighty beings, wrapped in 
their own deep thoughts, holding their own 
high converse one with another. 

And now, she had come to the mountains. 
Not only were they her own, but she was theirs. 
Not a mountain child, like the mighty Twins, 
or even like Zitli — happy Zitli, who knew no 
other world than this glorious one; but an 
adopted child, say! She had come to visit 
them; they would be kind to her, would ac- 
cept her love and reverence. It was very 
wonderful. 

The chalet stood half way up one of the 
lesser Alps, on a ledge which jutted out from 
the green wooded slope. All around were 


86 


HONOR BRIGHT 


other Alps, some green to the top, others 
capped or mantled with snow; others again, 
which seemed to scorn all covering, and tow- 
ered gaunt and bare, their rocky sides seamed 
and scarred. These were dead giants. Honor 
thought. She did not love to look on them, 
they were too terrifying; she lifted her eyes 
to the loftiest summit of all, that of the Dent 
du Midi himself, the mighty Prince of her 
dreams. How glorious he was; how noble! 

As she lay watching, a glow stole over the 
brow of the white giant; the green of the 
nearer ones grew warmer; the sun was going 
down, and the world was turning to rose and 
gold. A level shaft flamed through the win- 
dow and fell on Honor’s bed, lighting up the 
quilt. ‘‘Look!” it seemed to say. “This too 
is wonderful!” 

It certainly was; heaviest linen, so cov- 
ered with embroidery that the groundwork 
could hardly be seen. All in white; yet with 
a bewildering variety about it, somehow. 


IN THE CHALET OF THE ROCKS 87 


Looking closer, Honor saw that it was divided 
into five compartments, a round one in the 
centre, the others fitting into it. The centre- 
piece displayed the sun, moon and stars, beau- 
tifully wrought in shining linen. In one of 
the others were delicate shapes of Alpine flow- 
ers, so lovely that one hardly missed the color. 
Another held ferns and mosses, while a third 
was covered with birds, in full flight or perched 
on twig and bough. The fourth — at first 
Honor thought it was entirely empty, but soon 
she spied in one corner a bit of work, evidently 
the beginning of a design. She was puzzling 
over it when a sudden whiff struck her nos- 
trils, a pungent, aromatic whiff which made 
her exclaim unconsciously, “Oh, how hungry 
I am!” 

la bonne heureF^ Gretli stood beam- 
ing in the doorway, carrying a tray; on the 
tray was a blue bowl, steaming, fragrant. 
“Behold the soup of Mademoiselle ! Our 
mountain air brings the appetite; cream and 


88 


HONOR BRIGHT 


onions, with a little of our oldest cheese — be- 
hold!” 

Standing on one side, arms akimbo, the 
benevolent giantess watched the consumption 
of the ‘‘restorative” soup, and which face was 
brighter, hers or the consumer’s, it would 
have been hard to say. 


CHAPTER VII 


ZITLI 

Honor did not sleep the first part of the 
night; her ankle was stiff and painful, and 
she was a little feverish. She had a vision, 
in the middle of the night, of Gretli, towering 
like an Alp beside her in a mammoth night- 
gown, holding a cup to her lips and murmur- 
ing, ^'Tisane! to make sleep well. Taste! 
but taste then, my child!” 

Honor tasted, sipped, drank deep of the 
pleasant cooling draught, herbs and honey and 
whey mysteriously mingled; then sank back 
on the pillow. Was it really Gretli or a 
mountain? The Dent d'Oche, come to visit 
her and accept her homage? Why not? 
Hesperus came ! Mountains — maidens — ti- 
sane — 


89 


90 


HONOR BRIGHT 


The next thing Honor knew the morning 
sun was shining in on her: not directly in her 
face, but reflected through the open door in 
the little mirror opposite the foot of her bed. 
She sat up, blinking and rubbing her eyes. 

“Where am I?” she said again, as she had 
said the day before; the next moment she 
knew, for there was Gretli in the doorway, 
beaming broad and bright as the sun itself. 
She carried a basin — a very small one — and 
a towel of homespun damask fit for a duchess. 

“It is to wash the face, is it not?” she said. 
“Before breakfast; such is the custom of the 
honored Ladies, one is aware.” 

“Oh, thank you, Gretli! What a pretty 
towel!” 

Gretli beamed broader still. “It is of my 
trousseau!” she said. “I chose it for made- 
moiselle, because it is the pattern I like best; 
observe! the double-basket weave; that is not 
ugly, hein? I spun and wove that when I 
was of the age of Mademoiselle.” 


ZITLI 


91 


“Your trousseau !” cried Honor. “Are you 
going to be married, Gretli? Oh, how excit- 
ing! Does Madame know? May I tell the 
girls? Who is he? Is he as handsome as — 
but he couldn’t be!” 

“Mademoiselle must not excite herself be- 
fore breakfast!” said Gretli demurely. “All 
girls make their trousseau, is it not so? Then 
if the good God sends a husband, voila! one 
is not unprepared. Permit that I brush the 
hair of mademoiselle; the brush is entirely 
new, a present from my godmother. But, 
what hair! Verily, it curls like the flames on 
the hearth. A fire of gold, is it not so?” 

“Isn’t it horrid?” sighed Honor. “I’d give 
everything I have in the world to have it black, 
Gretli!” 

Gretli cried out in horror. 

“Mademoiselle! the wonderful hair; beau- 
tiful enough, with reverence be it said, for the 
tresses of Ste. Genevieve herself. But made- 
moiselle jests, of a surety. She is doubtless 


92 


HONOR BRIGHT 


thankful, as she surely ought to be, for this 
gift of the good God, which might be desired 
by queens. Voild! Mademoiselle is tidi- 
ness itself; a little moment, and I bring her 
breakfast!” 

What a breakfast that was! Cafe-au-lait^ 
a whole bowl of it, smoking, fragrant, deli- 
cious; crisp rolls, fresh butter, honey and 
cream, and a little tea-rose-colored egg, which 
Gretli declared the youngest pullet had laid on 
purpose not half an hour before. All this 
neatly arranged on a wooden tray so beauti- 
fully carved that Honor cried out at sight of it. 
Gretli glowed responsive. 

‘‘Zitli’s work!” she said proudly. ‘‘It took 
the prize at the carvers’ exhibition last year; 
in the department of young persons, be it 
understood. He was offered much money 
for it, but no ! it was for me, he said, the 
good child! I value it highly, mademoi- 
selle.” 

“I should think so!” said Honor. “Why, 



( I 


7 J 


STANDING ON ONE SIDE, ARMS AKIMBO 











» 


/ 




ZITLI 


93 


I never saw anything so lovely. What are the 
flowers?” 

‘^Edelweiss and alpenrosen; they are my 
flowers. But now let mademoiselle eat, lest 
her breakfast cool ! I return shortly.” 

Honor ate her breakfast with right good will, 
enjoying every mouthful as a healthy girl 
should. Between bites and sups, she ex- 
changed morning greetings with the moun- 
tains, which showed as friendly a face as the 
night before, though no rosy veil softened their 
morning splendor of white and green. 

“Did you bring me the tisane last night. 
Royal Highness?” said Honor. “Or was it 
really Gretli? She looked quite as big, you 
know! Are any of your mountain ladies as 
handsome as she is? Wouldn’t they look 
funny in blue skirts and black bodices? How 
many yards do you suppose it would take — ” 

A light cloud-shadow drifted over the shin- 
ing face of the Dent du Midi; it was as if he 
said, “Don’t talk nonsense, child!” 


94 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Honor accepted the rebuke, and devoted 
herself to her honey and rolls. 

By and by came Gretli again to inspect the 
ankle. It was better, but still swollen and 
painful. After examining it carefully, the 
good giantess vanished, and presently reap- 
peared, carrying carefully a glass bowl in 
which were two black objects about two 
inches long. At first sight Honor thought 
they were stones or bits of black wood: but 
looking carefully at them, she saw one 
move. 

‘‘Gretli!” she cried. “They are alive! 
What hideous, horrible creatures! Take 
them away, please!” 

“In truth they are alive!” Gretli nodded 
contentedly. “Have no fear of them. Made- 
moiselle. They are good creatures, and un- 
derstand their business well. See how your 
ankle is swollen, is it not? I apply my good 
little sangsue (leech), and in a few moments 
— but mademoiselle will see!” and without 


ZITLI 


95 


more ado she clapped first one leech and then 
the other on the offending ankle. 

Honor shrieked aloud at the touch of the 
cold, clammy creatures; shrieked louder still 
when they applied themselves, in a quiet but 
efficient way, to the work in hand. The two 
shrieks rent the air; startled the browsing goats 
outside, brought Zitli to his feet in the outer 
room, to see what was the matter. Looking 
up, in the act of opening her mouth for a third. 
Honor saw Gretli’s face of demure amazement, 
and stopped short. 

“Why — why do you look at me like that?” 
she faltered. ‘They are horrible and disgust- 
ing, and they hurt me! I never heard of any- 
thing so dreadful!” 

“Is it so?” Gretli spoke gravely. “Made- 
moiselle is young. There are many things 
more dreadful than a sangsue, which was made 
by the Divine Hand, and given for the use of 
man. Mademoiselle observes that we live 
upon a mountain, where physicians do not 


96 


HONOR BRIGHT 


abound; thus, we employ the remedies that 
Nature imparted to our fathers, and are thank- 
ful. To the montagnard, the sangsue is a 
good friend. Zitli went before daybreak to 
the little pond to bring these fresh and lively 
for mademoiselle.” 

Honor blushed scarlet, and hung her head. 

‘T am sorry !” she murmured. ‘Tt — it was 
very kind of Zitli. Don’t tell him, please, 
Gretli! I am so ashamed!” 

"‘Assuredly, no!” Gretli was her own 
beaming self again; a slight shake of her 
head as she glanced toward the door warned 
Zitli to make no sound; he vanished 
silently. 

“Friend sangsue is not beautiful!” she ad- 
mitted cheerfully. “Also, he surprised made- 
moiselle. I should have explained in advance 
— but in that case mademoiselle might not 
have permitted; so all is well, and now I re- 
move these gentlemen, who have breakfasted 
to heart’s content — voild! Back to your 


ZITLI 


&7 


bowl, messieurs! Now a little massage, and 
we shall see!” 

Wonderful massage that, with the strong, 
supple fingers! The pain seemed to melt 
away undet them. When it was over, and the 
ankle firmly bound in bandages of strong 
homespun linen (no ‘‘gauze” in mountain 
chalets!) Honor declared it felt almost en- 
tirely well. 

“I believe I could walk on it! May I try, 
Gretli?” 

“On no account. Mademoiselle! It is great 
happiness to have relieved you of the pain, but 
for strength, time and patience are required. 
It will be several days before mademoiselle 
can stand on that foot; meantime — behold her 
conveyance.” 

She held out her massive brown arms with 
a delightful smile. Ten minutes later. Honor 
was reclining, well propped with pillows, on 
the seat that ran the length of the broad win- 
dow in the living room. Her lame ankle, 


98 


HONOR BRIGHT 


swathed in its bandages, contrasted oddly with 
her other foot in its stout little walking shoe. 
Honor had pretty feet. Stephanie admired 
them greatly (her own feet being large and 
flat) and was constantly praising them. 
Soeur Seraphine heard her one day, and said 
gravely that both girls should be simply thank- 
ful that their feet were not deformed. 

“It would have been fully as easy for the 
good God to give you club feet,” she reminded 
them, “and it is through no merit of yours 
that this was not ordained. If a foot is 
good to walk on, that is all we should ask 
of it.” 

The Sister walked away up the allee, Ste- 
phanie, shrugging her shoulders, pointed at 
the footprint she left on the white sand. 

“But regard!” she murmured. “It is well 
for the Sister to speak ; her foot was considered 
the most beautiful in Paris, my mother has told 
me so.” 

Honor was glad Stephanie could not see her 


ZITLI 


99 


foot now; the next moment she forgot all 
about it. 

The broad window looked out upon the 
green in front of the chalet, a shelf, as it were, 
of the mountain, which fell steeply away be- 
low it, and rose no less steeply behind. There 
was just room for the buildings (the chalet, the 
cowhouse and various small outbuildings), 
and for this pleasant green space. The grass 
was short and close as turf, though no lawn 
mower had ever touched it. The goats at- 
tended to that; here they were now, nibbling 
busily away, as if they had no time to spare. 
In the middle of the green sat Zitli, on a low 
stool, milking one of the she-goats. His 
crutch lay on the grass beside him; he was 
whistling gayly, and looked bright as the morn- 
ing. Presently Honor, watching, saw him 
give a quick little glance over his shoulder, 
and then very quietly take a crutch in one 
hand, while he went on milking with the other. 
Following his glance. Honor was aware of 


100 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Bimbo, standing a few paces in the rear of 
Zitli, his beautiful head thrown back, his eyes 
measuring the distance between him and the 
boy. Now he cast a wary glance around him; 
nibbled grass for a moment with an air of 
elaborate detachment; then dropping his head 
swiftly, he sprang forward like arrow from the 
bow. 

Whack! the crutch caught him full on the 
muzzle: he rolled over with a shrill bleat of 
amazement, rage and pain. 

Honor clapped her hands in delight. 

‘‘Hurrah!” she shouted. 

Zitli looked up and laughed back at her. 

“5o7i jour, mademoiselle!” he cried, wav- 
ing his victorious crutch. “He has his break- 
fast, that one, not so?” 

“Look out, Zitli!” cried Honor. “There 
comes Seraphine, on the other side!” 

She-goats do not butt; nevertheless, Sera- 
phine, sidling quietly up, evidently meant mis- 
chief. She stretched her neck toward the 


ZITLI 


101 


brimming pail; another moment, and — whack! 
the crutch caught her too, and she retired 
shaking her head violently. 

“What possesses the creatures?” cried 
Honor. 

“The pixies are riding them, mademoi- 
selle!” replied Zitli. “0/ie, Gretli! the pail 
is full, and the creatures are ridden.” 

Gretli came hastening out to lift the heavy 
pail, and scold the unruly goats, which scat- 
tered in every direction at sight of her; some 
up the mountain, some down, away they went, 
leaping from stone to stone, till not one was to 
be seen save old Moufflon, standing on a point 
of rock and gravely bleating reproof to his 
troublesome flock. 

Zitli followed Gretli into the house, and 
while she disappeared into the dairy, he came 
and sat down by Honor’s window-seat. He 
hoped mademoiselle had slept well; pain, that 
was not agreeable, no indeed. He rejoiced to 
hear that it was nearly gone this morning. 


102 


HONOR BRIGHT 


“Are the goats always so mischievous, 
Zitli?” asked Honor. 

“Not always! often, yes; but I hold it not 
wholly the fault of the creatures. To-day, 
for example, they are pixy-ridden, that sees 
itself easily.” 

“What do you mean, Zitli?” 

“Mademoiselle knows about the pixies? 
No? True, they are of the mountains; in 
cities, one hears, they are not known, but here 
— yes, indeed! They are like men, only 
small, small, and full of mischief. At times, 
they are visible to mortals, at others not; it is 
as they please. Mademoiselle permits that I 
bring my work-bench, yes? Like that, I can 
talk better; that is, if mademoiselle would care 
to hear?” 

Seeing Honor all eagerness, he hobbled 
across the room, and returned, pushing before 
him a small table covered with bits of wood 
and carving tools. 

“Like that!” he repeated, settling himself, 


ZITLI 


103 


and taking up his work. ‘‘While the hands 
work, the tongue may play; if it speaks no 
evil!” added the boy, crossing himself gravely. 

“Tell me about the pixies!” cried Honor. 
“Did you ever see one, Zitli?” 

Zitli glanced toward the dairy. 

“The sister holds it not well to speak of 
them,” he said uneasily; “but so long as one 
says no harm — Brother Atli thinks it was a 
dwarf I saw, mademoiselle, a mortal being, 
only small, like a tiny child. There are such, 
he says, and all he says is true. Neverthe- 
less — ” he paused. 

“Nevertheless? Do go on, Zitli!” 

“He was very small!” Zitli spoke in a half- 
whisper. “Smaller than any child I ever saw ; 
and he wore a green coat. Mademoiselle can 
judge for herself. Certain it is that he had a 
bag full of money, hung from his belt. There 
was a hole in it, and some coins had fallen out, 
gold and silver pieces. There they lay in the 
road, and he all unknpwing. I called to him, 


104 


HONOR BRIGHT 


and he turned and gave me a look of anger 
truly frightful. I began to pick up the coins, 
and brought them to him as quickly as I could; 
then, quite suddenly, his look changed. He 
thanked me as a father might, and gave me — 
look, mademoiselle!” 

He drew from under his shirt a small bag 
that hung round his neck, and opening it, dis- 
played a gold coin. 

“Oh, Zitli, how wonderful!” cried Honor. 
“And you think — you really think he was a 
pixy? May I look? Oh! but — but this is a 
real coin, isn’t it? A ten-florin piece. 
Would a pixy have that, do you think, Zitli?” 

Zitli nodded thrice, gravely. “Mademoi- 
selle,” he said, “those people can have what 
they like — or the appearance of it. Never 
while I live will I spend this gold; and — 
mademoiselle may think this strange, but it is 
true — since I have had it my back has given 
me no pain; but none at all, compared with 
former times. It is true, as my sister says, 


ZITLI 


105 


that the doctor at Lucerne gave also some 
help; yes, I am not ungrateful to him; but — ” 
he nodded several times, gravely, as he re- 
placed the bag around his neck. 

‘‘Are they often seen?” queried Honor. 
“Could — do you suppose a girl could see 
them, Zitli?” 

“But assuredly! indeed, some hold that 
they are kinder to maidens than to men. 
There is the story of Magdalen of Pilatus. 
Mademoiselle has never heard that? She 
lived at the foot of that dreadful mountain — ” 
Zitli crossed himself again — “and she was a 
good girl, and beautiful, but very poor. 
Higher up on the mountain lived her mother’s 
cousin Klaus, and he was very rich, and his 
gold, men said, come by in no honest way, 
but of that I know nothing. Once the mother 
fell sick, and felt a longing for a certain kind 
of cheese, which they were too poor to buy. 
Magdalen went to the rich Klaus, and asked 
for a piece of this cheese, of which it was 


106 


HONOR BRIGHT 


known that he possessed a large store, but he 
would not give her so much as would lie on 
the point of a pin, and drove her away with 
cruel words. Then she went to her betrothed, 
Alois, a good youth, but little richer than her- 
self. He gave her what cheese he had; but 
as she was returning home down the mountain, 
her foot slipped, and she dropped the cheese, 
which rolled down the precipice and was lost. 
Magdalen sat down and wept bitterly; as she 
wept, she felt a pull at her sleeve, and looking 
up, lo ! there was a little green man with a long 
beard and a cheese on his shoulder. In his 
hand he held a green plant, and he bade Mag- 
dalen give over her weeping. 

“ Take this plant, he said, ‘and make of 
it a tisane for your mother; it will cure her of 
her sickness. As for cheese, here is one that 
will do instead of that you lost!’ 

“He then disappeared like a mist of night. 
Magdalen hastened home and made the tisane 
and gave it to her mother, who recovered her 


ZITLI 


107 


health at once. And when they cut open the 
cheese, mademoiselle, it was all pure gold 
within. So they became rich, and Magdalen 
and Alois were married, and bought many fine 
pastures and cows, and became the happiest 
couple in Switzerland. But from that day the 
wicked Klaus began to lose his riches, and at 
last he died a beggar whom Magdalen fed out 
of her bounty.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE MOUNTAIN FIRESIDE 

Honor will never forget as long as she lives 
the next evening at the Chalet des Rochers. 
Indeed, every hour she spent there was a life- 
long treasure of memory, but that evening was 
perhaps the most wonderful. 

To begin with, Atli came. At five o’clock 
the farmyard dog, a huge St. Bernard, began 
to bark; deep, regular barks, like the booming 
of distant cannon. Zitli looked up from his 
carving, Gretli turned from her frying-pan; 
both faces were bright with a look which. 
Honor was to find out, meant always one 
thing. 

‘‘Atli comes!” said the boy. 

“Is that why the dog barks?” asked Honor. 
“Can he see him?” 


108 


THE MOUNTAIN FIRESIDE 109 


Gretli laughed. “Not so, mademoiselle! 
Probably Atli has set his foot on a stone at the 
bottom of the Alp; possibly there has been 
no sound at all, and Tell knows because he 
knows, all simply. Soon you will hear the 
goats; they have less intelligence, you under- 
stand.” 

Sure enough, a few minutes later came 
bleatings, at first faint and scattered, then 
gathering in strength and volume, till at last 
the whole herd. Bimbo leading. Moufflon bring- 
ing up the rear, came scampering over the 
rocks and formed in an eager huddle on the 
greensward, facing the climbing path. Again 
a few minutes, and an object appeared, at 
sight of which a perfect chorus of bleats broke 
out, while the barking of Tell grew louder and 
more eager. First the top, then the whole, 
of a green pointed hat; then a brown, ruddy, 
smiling face ; then a pair of massive shoulders ; 
finally the whole (which means a great deal) 
of Atli. 


110 


HONOR BRIGHT 


‘‘Atli comes!” repeated the brother and sis- 
ter in happy duet, and both hastened out, with 
a glance of smiling apology at the young guest 
' who could not follow, could only gaze with all 
her eyes from her window, could only thrill 
through all her being at the really splendid 
vision of the young giant. It was as if one 
of her mountains had taken human shape and 
come a- visiting; only, no mountain could look 
so friendly or smile so kindly. She could 
hear the eager questions, the gay laughing an- 
swers. Had all gone well? Was the clover 
sufhcient? Were the children content with 
the pasture? 

‘‘My faith, yes! they might well be. The 
clover is thick as— as thy hair, my Gretli! 
Not one of them but desired two mouths that 
she might eat the faster.” 

“La Dumaine led the way well? But why 
do I ask? Surely she did!” 

Atli nodded emphatically. 

“She is a queen indeed! There is no such 


THE MOUNTAIN FIRESIDE 111 


leader in these Alps. Once only that one — ” 
a jerk of the head conveyed, somehow, one 
could not tell how, that “that one” was the 
Duchess of Montbazon — “tried to push ahead, 
and got a thrust in the side from our Queen’s 
horn that sent her back roaring, I promise you. 
Saperli poppette! in the home yard La Du- 
maine is the gentille demoiselle, see you; on 
the Alp she is General as well as Queen.” 

“And thou hast left Jean and Frangois in 
charge? Didst sleep in the hut? All was 
well?” 

“All well, my sister! except — I have 
brought the appetite of a wolf! But who is 
that at the window? Tiens! the little 
mademoiselle with golden hair! How then, 
my sister?” 

“Zitli will tell you!” cried Gretli. “I must 
prepare supper on the instant. Hast had 
nothing. I’ll warrant, for a day and a half, but 
bread and cheese^ and I stand here chatter- 


112 


HONOR BRIGHT 


She hurried in. Zitli told in eager detail, 
with many gestures, the story of Bimbo’s as- 
sault and its consequences, and Atli hastened 
to greet Honor and to express his sympathy 
and regret. 

‘‘That nefarious beast! he should be sewed 
in his own skin turned inside out. But what 
would you, mademoiselle? A goat, that has 
no moral sense. The good God, in making 
this beast, omitted it, for reasons known only 
to Himself. I am desolated ; yet I trust made- 
moiselle is not too uncomfortable? What 
honor for the Chalet des Rochers to receive 
such a guest! Be still, creatures! I come!” 
This to the goats, who were bleating and leap- 
ing about him, making soft runs and butts 
against his columnar legs. “A moment, my 
sister, while I feed the creatures and greet our 
Tell, who barks his head off in calling me; 
then I come, a wolf indeed!” 

The table was drawn up beside Honor’s 
window-seat, that she might join the family 


THE MOUNTAIN FIRESIDE 113 


party. Gretli laid the plates of heavy dark 
green crockery, and the carved wooden cups, 
Zitli’s handiwork, as she proudly explained. 
There were sausages for supper, and ham, 
black bread and cheese, with honey and cream 
and biscuits des Rockers for dessert. No 
great variety is to be looked for in a Swiss 
ch^et, but everything was so good. Honor 
thought she would never ask for anything 
different. 

They supped by daylight; but by-and-by, 
when the sunset glory faded and the air grew 
cold and thin, doors and windows were shut, 
the big lamp lighted, and the evening began 
in earnest. First, Honor must be moved 
nearer the fire, Atli and Gretli declared. The 
reclining chair that Atli had made when Zitli 
was so ill, and had to lie extended like a piece 
of wood; was it not so, Zitli? Let Atli bring 
it from the shed; like that! Now carefully — 
ah, but carefully! in manner not to disturb a 
bird upon the nest. 


114 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Honor felt “like a small bit of thistledown,” 
she told Stephanie afterward, in those power- 
ful arms. Atli took her gently by the shoul- 
ders, Gretli by the feet ; she was wafted across 
the room, and deposited in the cushioned chair 
beside the glowing hearth. Ah ! for example ! 
that was as it should be, said Gretli, beaming 
broadly. Atli nodded approval, and hoped 
mademoiselle found herself not too badly off. 

“Oh, but it is delightful,” cried Honor. 
“So comfortable! and really, I feel perfectly 
well — ohn She had moved her foot, and 
was promptly reminded that however the rest 
of her might feel, her ankle had its own sen- 
sations. Then what sympathy was showered 
upon her! Mademoiselle was of a delicacy! 
Gretli explained. Like that, the nerves were 
sensitive, one understood. Let her, Gretli, 
but rub the ankle a little, n est-ce-pas? 
Honor protesting it was all right again, truly, 
truly, Gretli announced that in that case a 
little diversion was what was needed. 


THE MOUNTAIN FIRESIDE 115 


“A little music, is not so? Zitli, bring thy 
zither! I have some yarn to wind, and Atli 
and I will sing to thy playing.” 

‘'Oh, let me hold the yarn!” cried Honor. 
“Mayn’t I, Gretli?” 

So Honor held the blue yarn, and Gretli 
wound mightily, her strong brown arms mov- 
ing with machine-like regularity. Atli 
brought his own work-bench, and fell to shap- 
ing wooden shoes; while Zitli tuned his zither. 
Presently he struck a chord, nodding to his 
brother. The shepherd threw back his head, 
opened his mouth wide, and poured forth in 
a rich and mellow tenor a ditty which, roughly 
translated, might run thus: 

“On the Alp the grass is sweetest, 

Li-u-o, my Queen! 

Thou whose beauty is completest, 

Li-u-o, my Queen! 

Crop thy fill of honey clover. 

Crop and crop it o’er and ovei;, 

On the Alp thou fairest rover, 

Li-u-o, my Queen!” 


116 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Atli closed his powerful jaws with a snap 
on the last word, and Gretli took up the song, 
her rich, deep contralto ringing out nobly. 

“I will follow at thy calling, 

0 my master dear! 

Where the mountain streams are falling, 

0 my master dear! 

Follow past the rushing torrent. 

Past the precipice abhorrent. 

Trusting in thy faithful warrant, 

0 my master dear!” 

In the third verse the two voices blended, 
Zitli adding, in a sweet clear treble, a yodel 
with no articulate words, only a melodious 
combination of vowels. 

‘‘Follow Queen and follow Master, 

Cows and heifers all! 

Fear no trouble nor disaster. 

Cows and heifers all! 

On the Alp is richest feeding, 

Thither then with cautious heeding, 

Follow where the Queen is leading. 

Cows and heifers all!” 

The words were mere doggerel, the air sim- 


THE MOUNTAIN FIRESIDE " 117 


pie and primitive, but somehow the effect was 
magical. Honor felt the very spirit of the 
place enter into her. It was good to be here ! 
If she might only stay always! Why not? 
She was a poor orphan, with no kin that she 
had ever seen ; she could not stay in school all 
her life. What more delightful than to be- 
come a sennerin of the Alps? To live here, 
with the Twins and Zitli: to learn to spin and 
weave, to make butter and cheese. She would 
be their little sister ; it would be heavenly 1 
Honor glanced up shyly under her long eye- 
lashes at Atli where he sat opposite her. How 
splendid he was! Just so, and no otherwise, 
must Hercules have looked; or Roland, or 
Lancelot — no, Lancelot’s hair was black! 
Siegfried, then! or Baldur the Beautiful! 
Yes, that was best; if only Baldur were a pret- 
tier name — it made one think of baldness, and 
his hair was so wonderful. She glanced 
again: Atli was intent on his shoemaking. 
The firelight played on his crisp yellow curls, 


118 


HONOR BRIGHT 


turning them to threads of gold; on his broad 
white forehead, his brown cheeks, his massive 
yet shapely arms and hands. Truly, a splen- 
did figure of a man. Honor’s heart fluttered 
a little, as fourteen-year-old hearts will flutter. 
If — if only she had dark hair! if some day — 

Half consciously she dropped into her story, 
neglected now these many days; began “tell- 
ing” to herself, while the yarn flew over her 
hands, and the fire glowed and crackled. 

“While yet little more than a child I met 
him who was thenceforth to dominate my life. 
It was among the Alps, in a simple chalet, 
humble, yet more delightful than many a tur- 
reted castle I have seen. Around were all the 
glories of Nature (and then I can put in a de- 
scription of the sunset last night, you know), 
and he was like his own mountains, rugged 
and grand and glorious. He was my oppo- 
site in every way, though our souls were alike. 
(Here followed an accurate description of 
Atli.) Something in me — it may have been 


THE MOUNTAIN FIRESIDE 119 


my night-black tresses and starry eyes — at- 
tracted him. He turned his flashing glance 
upon me — ” 

At this moment Atli looked up and his eyes 
met Honor’s. They did not flash, but they 
were very pleasant and friendly. 

‘‘Perhaps mademoiselle will sing for us!” 
he said ; “a song of her great country, is it not 
so? Last summer I guided an American 
Monsieur over the Weisshorn, and he sang a 
song of America. How was it, then? T-an- 
kidoodel?’ Mademoiselle is acquainted with 
that song?” 

Honor laughed outright; dreams and story 
— for she was really a sensible child when not 
dreaming — flew up the chimney. 

“‘Yankee Doodle!’ oh, yes!” she cried. 
“I know that; Papa taught me, and some 
others too.” 

She sang “Yankee Doodle” in a very sweet, 
fresh voice, and the Twins — I was going to 
say “cooed,” but “mooed” would be more like 


120 


HONOR BRIGHT 


it — with pleasure, and demanded more. So 
she gave them the ‘‘Suwanee River” and 
‘‘America,” to their great delight. The first, 
Gretli declared, melted the heart to softness, 
while the latter — 

“That elevates the soul, hein? The blood 
stirs, as at the sound of a trumpet. But made- 
moiselle must not fatigue herself. A glass of 
buttermilk, is it not so? Behold that I bring 
it, on the instant, cool, cool, from the stream!” 

She brought it, and stood over Honor with 
smiling authority. 

“Every drop!” she commanded. “It is 
stomachic, mademoiselle understands, and 
nourishing as well. Now mademoiselle shall 
rest, and Zitli shall tell us a story, since it is 
not yet bed time. Or is mademoiselle weary? 
On the instant I transport her — ” 

“Oh, no, no!” cried Honor. “A story, 
please! I am not one scrap sleepy.” 

“At the good hour! Attend, Zitli, till I 
bring my knitting! Behold, thy table! 


THE MOUNTAIN FIRESIDE 121 


Thou talkest always best with thy tools in 
hand, not so? Voila! proceed then, my son !” 

Zitli, with frowning brow, pondered, taking 
up one tool and then another, examining them 
minutely and laying them aside. Finally, he 
found one to his mind ; selected a bit of wood 
with like care, and fell to work. 

‘‘Shall it be of Pilatus?” he asked; and went 
on without waiting for reply. “Pilatus, as 
mademoiselle knows well, is far over yonder!” 
He nodded toward the northeast. “We can- 
not see it from here, but from the Dent du Midi 
it sees itself plainly. That mountain is al- 
ways wrapped in clouds, and these clouds are 
sent, some say, by the other mountains round 
about, because they do not wish to see a place 
of such shame and sorrow; but others claim 
that the mountain himself grieves for the curse 
put upon him, and veils his face because of 
it. Which of these sayings, if either, is true, 
is not known to me. There— pldit-il^ made- 
moiselle?^^ 


122 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Honor had looked up with such evident in- 
quiry in her eyes that the boy stopped. 

‘‘I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, ‘‘I 
only wondered — what is the curse, Zitli?’* 

Atli and Gretli were too polite to look their 
astonishment, but Zitli was younger; besides, 
he was a story-teller. 

“Mademoiselle does not know?” he cried. 
“In America, one is ignorant of that? Tenez, 
that is something of the remarkable. That 
mountain, mademoiselle, is accursed and has 
ever been so. After the death of the Saviour 
of Mankind — ” the three crossed themselves 
devoutly — “Pontius Pilatus, the wicked Gov- 
ernor of Jerusalem, found himself so ill at 
ease because of the sin and remorse that was 
in him that he took flight from the Holy Land, 
and tried to hide himself, now here, now there. 
But everywhere he was driven out with male- 
dictions, until he came to our beloved coun- 
try, where, do you see, there were not many 
people in those days, and all honest Christians 


THE MOUNTAIN FIRESIDE 123 


attending to their own affairs and minding 
their flocks and herds as Christians should. 
So no one saw that accursed one, and he took 
refuge on that mountain and there he has been 
ever since. He cannot die, because neither 
Heaven nor Hell will receive him. He wan- 
ders about the mountain, and wherever he 
goes the green herb withers and the leaver of 
the trees shrivel and drop off. The mountain 
groans and would fain be rid of him. Now it 
lets fall an avalanche, hoping to bury him 
fathoms deep and so make an end; but the 
snow falls away from him on either side and 
leaves him bare. Now it gathers a thunder- 
storm and tries to strike him dead with light- 
ning bolts, but all in vain ; he opens his breast, 
inviting death; the bolt turns aside and will 
not touch him. Often has he tried to drown 
himself in the gloomy lake on the top of the 
mountain, but the waves rise and cast him on 
shore. So he lives, accursed of God and 


man. 


124 


HONOR BRIGHT 


‘‘It is an ancient legend!” said Atli quietly. 
“What would you? In the course of cen- 
turies, many things come to be believed. It 
is certain that Pilatus is a stormy mountain, 
but that may come from many causes.” 

“But when people have seen him!” cried 
Zitli, his blue eyes flashing. “When he is 
seen by mortal men, my brother!” 

“Ah! if he is seen, that is another matter. 
Hast thou seen him, for example, my little 
one?” 

The giant spoke kindly, but there was evi- 
dent amusement in his tone. Zitli blushed 
deeply. 

“Not I myself,” he admitted; “but when I 
was over there — thou knowest, at the hospital 
in Lucerne — I heard of those who had seen 
him. The uncle of one of the nurses — look! 
one of his goats strayed from the flock and 
wandered on to the lower slope of that moun- 
tain, to the westward. The shepherd went in 
search of the creature, greatly fearing, but 


THE MOUNTAIN FIRESIDE 125 


what would you? It was his duty! As he 
searched, suddenly from the wood stepped out 
a man, old, old, wearing a red robe of strange 
fashion, and with a terrible look spoke to the 
shepherd.” 

“Oh I” cried Honor. “Oh, Zitli, how thrill- 
ing! What did he say?” 

“He spoke in a strange tongue! No word 
of it was to be understood.” 

“And — did he look like a Roman?” 

Zitli shrugged his shoulders and spread his 
hands abroad with a quaint gesture. “Can I 
tell, mademoiselle? I never saw a Roman, 
nor, we may suppose, did the shepherd. He 
looked, that one said, like Uncle Kissel.” 

Gretli gave a little murmur of deprecation ; 
Honor pressed on, all eagerness. 

“Who is Uncle Kissel?” 

“He is an old miser, mean and hateful, and 
ugly as sin — ” 

Zitli stopped short. Atli had laid down his 
tools, Gretli her knitting; both were looking at 


126 


HONOR BRIGHT 


him very gravely. The blood rushed into the 
boy’s face, and his eyes dropped. 

‘T — I ask your pardon, brother and sister!” 
he said. ‘T forgot!” 

Atli spoke, more sternly than Honor had 
thought he could speak. 

“Uncle Kissel is a man of honesty and 
probity. He has never robbed or cheated any 
man.” 

“He wastes nothing upon luxuries!” Gretli 
added; her tone, though gentler, was still one 
of distinct rebuke. “His fare is that of a her- 
mit, and hermits are holy men.” 

A silence followed. The Twins continued 
to look at Zitli, but their look was now one of 
expectation. It was evident that they waited 
for him to speak. But Zitli’s brow was 
clouded, and a dogged look crept over his thin, 
intelligent face. Honor looked from one to 
the other in wonder, but dared not break the 
silence. 

“Come, my little one!” said Gretli, pres- 


THE MOUNTAIN FIRESIDE 127 


ently, in an encouraging tone. ‘‘A word, is 
it not so? We wait, thy brother and 1. 
Thou art not wont to make us wait, Zitli.” 

“There is nothing more to say!” muttered 
Zitli sullenly. “You have said all there was.” 

The silence fell again: Honor began to be 
frightened. What was going to happen? 
The Twins sat like two mighty statues, grave, 
austere, expectant. Zitli sat looking at his 
tools, the picture of mute obstinacy. The 
clock ticked on the wall. There was no other 
sound. 

Suddenly, from nowhere, as it seemed, a 
cat appeared, leaped lightly up on Zitli’s table, 
proceeded to turn round and round, purring 
loudly, finally curled herself up in a gray ball 
among the tools and went to sleep. At first 
sight of the creature, the boy’s face relaxed. 
He bent over her, caressing, murmuring words 
of affection, then suddenly he looked up, and 
his own sunny smile broke out. 

“He has a cat!” he announced. “Uncle 


I 


128 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Kissel has a cat, and he feeds her; I saw him 
one day. Will that do. Brother and Sister?” 

Gretli was her own beaming self again ; she 
threw an appealing glance at Atli, and met one 
equally benign. 

“Kindness to animals!” she cried. “That 
is a virtue, if you will. All is now well, little 
one beloved; thy word is the best of the three. 
And now,” she added, rising, “it is thy bed- 
time, Zitli, and also Mademoiselle Honor must 
seek rest. Let us thank the all-merciful 
Father for another day!” 

The three knelt down, while Honor, forbid- 
den by a gesture to move, bowed her head; 
Atli gave thanks as simply and heartily as if 
the Father he adored were present in mortal 
guise; in the silence that followed. Honor felt 
her heart lifted higher than it had ever been 
before. 

A little later, while rubbing her ankle, Gretli 
explained to Honor. Mademoiselle did not 
wholly understand, was it not so? That was 


THE MOUNTAIN FIRESIDE 129 


but natural; it was a matter of family, did she 
see? It was a rule of their beloved mother, 
now with the saints, that if any ill were spoken 
of a pet-son, it must be followed by some 
good. 

‘‘As is but just!” Gretli nodded emphat- 
ically, rubbing away methodically. “ ‘We 
are compact of good and evil,’ the mother 
would say, ‘no human creature but has some- 
thing of both. Since the good God made us, 
there must be more of good than of evil, yet it 
often chances that we see the evil first, because 
it thrusts itself forth, like a loose stone on a 
slippery Alp, hoping to do mischief; thus, it 
is our duty at once to look for the good.’ 
Thus said our sainted mother; and thus it is 
our custom to allow no evil to be spoken of 
any person without a good word being added 
by each one of the family.” 

“It is a beautiful custom 1 ” said Honor. “I 
shall try to remember that, Gretli, all my 
life.” 


130 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Gretli’s smile was radiant as she tucked the 
blankets in around Honor’s shoulders. 

‘‘Mademoiselle Honor would never speak 
evil of any one, it is most probable!” she said. 
“Yet to any of us — since we are mortal, — that 
may arrive. Our Zitli, for example; it is 
rarely — oh, but very rarely — that he has any 
such trouble as to-night. He is not strong, do 
you see, mademoiselle, and — at Lucerne — 
there are things that — that it is better to for- 
get!” she concluded cheerfully. “Since now 
he is so well, and suffers seldom and little by 
comparison, all that is gone. ‘Look not 
mournfully into the past, it returns not!’ — 
that is well said, not so? Good-night, my lit- 
tle demoiselle! Sleep well, and all saints 
have you in their holy keeping!” 


CHAPTER IX 


STORY-TELLING 

The next day was so beautiful, and Honor’s 
ankle was so much better, that Gretli declared 
she must not stay in the house. The reclin- 
ing chair was brought out on the green plot, 
and there Honor was established, an impro- 
vised awning (two sticks and a counterpane) 
over her head, a table beside her, a piece of 
knitting to occupy her hands. Here she was 
spending the happiest of mornings, Zitli on 
one side, with his table and tools, on the other 
William Tell, who had been introduced to her 
only that morning, but who was already her 
faithful friend and — I was going to say 
‘‘slave,” but there was nothing servile about 
Tell. He happened to have four legs and a 
tail, and he had not learned articulate speech ; 

131 


132 


HONOR BRIGHT 


otherwise, he was a gentleman and a scholar 
— in various lines neglected in most schools. 

Gretli came out from the chalet, with her 
inevitable tray ; it was time for gouter, she an- 
nounced ; a glass of buttermilk, a fresh roll, a 
bit of cheese. Like that, mademoiselle would 
not grow thin, was it not so? 

‘‘Indeed, Gretli, I shall grow fat!” cried 
Honor. “So fat that I can’t move, and shall 
have to stay here always. Wouldn’t that be 
lovely? How I wish I could!” 

Gretli, arms akimbo, watching with satis- 
faction every mouthful Honor took, glowed re- 
sponsive. For example! that would be a 
pleasure indeed for them; the honored Ladies, 
it was to be feared, would regard the matter 
differently. Ah! pardon! mademoiselle must 
not do that! unless the cheese was not to her 
taste? 

Honor looked up wondering. “It is deli- 
cious!” she said. “I was only taking out 
these green spots, Gretli.” 


STORY-TELLING 


133 


‘‘But — a thousand pardons, Mademoiselle 
Honor ! The green spots, that is the best part 
of the cheese. He is an old one, you under- 
stand; ripe, but of a ripeness! I chose him 
with peculiar care, that mademoiselle might 
note the rich flavor that comes with age. 
With cheese as with man, my sainted mother 
used to say, the time of ripeness should be the 
best of life. Taste, then 1 but taste the green 
spot, mademoiselle! nest-ce pas? Am I not 
right?” 

Honor tasted the green cheese; gingerly at 
first, then with confidence, finally with eager- 
ness. 

“And I have always cut it out!” she la- 
mented. “Why did no one ever tell me be- 
fore? It is the best part, of course!” 

“Mademoiselle resembles the good Em- 
peror!” said Zitli, looking up with a 
smile. 

“For example! of a surety!” exclaimed 
Gretli. “Tell her that, Zitli. I have to pre- 


134 


HONOR BRIGHT 


pare the soupe.’^ She vanished into the 
house. 

‘‘What do you mean, Zitli?” asked Honor. 
“Why am I like an emperor, and how? And 
what emperor?” 

“The Emperor Charlemagne; who else? 
That great and good prince was fond of cheese, 
as was natural in a person of taste. There is 
an old story that traveling once through our 
beloved country, he came to the dwelling of 
a certain bishop and there took shelter for the 
night. The day was Friday; the good bishop 
was poor, the sea far off. Briefly, he had no 
fish. He served for the emperor’s supper 
some poor fry of vegetables, and a piece of old 
cheese, with bread of the country, and good 
whey. The emperor, being in royal appetite, 
hurled himself, as one might say, upon the 
cheese, but seeing green spots in it, began even 
as mademoiselle just now, to pick them out 
with his knife. Thereupon the bishop, like 
our Gretli, made respectful protest, telling 


STORY-TELLING 


135 


his sovereign that he was discarding the best 
part; like mademoiselle again, Charlemagne 
tasted and found this to be the case. There- 
upon he commanded the bishop to send him 
yearly, at his palace of Aix-la-Chapelle, two 
cases of cheese of that same kind. ‘And be 
sure that all have green spots!’ said the em- 
peror. 

“ ‘But, Majesty,’ the bishop protested, 
‘how can I do that? It is only when a cheese 
is cut open that one can tell whether it has 
green spots or not!’ 

“ ‘Nothing is easier,’ replied the emperor, 
who saw an obstacle only to overcome it. 
‘Cut every cheese in two! When one has 
green spots, lay the two halves together, pack 
them up, and send them to me!’ 

“The amiable sovereign ! a good cheese was 
to him the finest of all feasts.” 

“Oh, splendid!” cried Honor. “Do you 
know any more stories about Charlemagne? 
He is one of my favorite heroes.” 


136 


HONOR BRIGHT 


The boy’s face kindled, his eyes flashed. 

“Of mine also!” he cried. “So great a 
king, mademoiselle I so brave, so wise!” 

“So kind and generous!” 

“And so — tenez! ready always to laugh. 
He could conquer with a sword or a smile, 
as he would, is it not so? Mademoiselle 
knows the story of the mouse? No? Ah! 
that is a good one. There was a certain 
bishop, very different from that good poor 
prelate of the cheese. This one was vain and 
greedy, loving fine things, and caring more to 
feed his own stomach than the souls of his 
people. The good emperor marked this, and 
laid his plans accordingly. He called to him 
a certain Jewish merchant, who traded in rare 
and costly objects. ‘Take,’ he said, ‘a mouse 
alive in a trap; paint it all over with lively 
colors; then go to that bishop and offer it for 
sale, saying you have brought it from far 
Judea.’ 

“The Jew obeyed the royal command. 


STORY-TELLING 


137 


The bishop at sight of the painted mouse was 
filled with joy, and offered three silver pounds 
for it; but the Jew replied he would rather 
throw it into the sea than sell it for such a 
price. The bishop then offered ten pounds, 
but no! then twenty; all in vain. The mer- 
chant made no further answer, but wrapping 
his mouse tenderly in a precious silk, turned 
his back to depart. 

‘‘ ‘Come back!’ cried the bishop. T must 
have this rare creature! Leave him with me 
and you shall have a full bushel of silver!’ 

“To that the merchant agreed, and leaving 
the bishop enchanted with his mouse, took the 
money to the emperor, who rewarded him suit- 
ably for his service. Then Charlemagne sent 
for all the bishops and priests of the province, 
among them the vain and greedy one, and laid, 
the matter open before them. ‘My bishops 
and pastors,’ said the emperor, ‘you are sup- 
posed to minister to the poor, not to expend 
the revenues of your office upon vain and fool- 


138 


HONOR BRIGHT 


ish things; yet there is one among you who 
has paid to a Jew more silver than would feed 
many worthy families, and that for no precious 
object, but for a common mouse painted divers 
colors.’ 

“Upon that, the guilty bishop fell at his 
feet, confessing his sin and praying for par- 
don, which the gentle emperor gave him, suf- 
fering him to depart without further punish- 
ment.” 

Honor laughed heartily. “I think perhaps 
he had enough!” she said. “He must have 
been laughed at all the rest of his life. Do 
you suppose they called him the mouse- 
bishop? Oh no! that was Bishop Hatto, the 
dreadful one, you know, in the Mouse Tower 
on the Rhine. That story always frightens 
me, doesn’t it you, Zitli?” 

But Zitli, who knew so many stories and 
legends, had never heard that one. So then 
Honor must tell the fearful tale of Hatto, arch- 
bishop of Mentz; how when the grain harvest 


STORY-TELLING 


139 


was blighted and the starving people cried to 
him for food, knowing his granaries to be 
well-filled, he summoned them to his great 
barn to receive a dole, and then shut them up 
and burned them to death. 

‘‘And then — ” Honor’s eyes deepened till 
they were almost the black she sighed for, “the 
wicked bishop laughed, and said it was a good 
bonfire ; he went laughing to bed, and slept as 
if nothing had happened. But — Zitli, next 
morning, when he came to where his own por- 
trait hung, he turned pale, for the rats had 
eaten it out of its frame 

“My faith!” cried Zitli. “For example! 
that was well done of them. And what hap- 
pened then, mademoiselle?” 

“Oh, his people came running, one by one, 
and told him dreadful things: first, that the 
rats had broken into his granaries and eaten 
all the corn; then that a great army of rats 
was coming, coming, nearer and nearer. 
When Bishop Hatto heard that, he fled away. 


140 


HONOR BRIGHT 


to a strong tower he had, on a little island in 
the Rhine. It is there still, Zitli, think of it! 
Madame Madeleine has seen it. Of course it 
is ruined, but — well, the tower was very strong 
and he shut himself up in it, and barred all the 
doors and windows, and there he stayed, trem- 
bling and saying his prayers.” 

^^Saperli poppette! fine prayers those must 
have been!” said Zitli. “As if the good God 
had no knowledge, hein? Proceed, Made- 
moiselle, I beg of you!” 

“They swam across the Rhine; they climbed 
up to the tower; he heard their sharp teeth 
gnawing, gnawing at the woodwork; they 
seemed even to gnaw at the stones ; and noth- 
ing could stop them ! They gnawed their way 
through, and they swarmed up the stairs, and 
there was the wicked bishop, and they ate him 
all up! Did you ever hear of anything so 
dreadful?” 

“For example!” said Zitli in a tone of great 
satisfaction. “Bravo, Brother Rats! That 


STORY-TELLING 


141 


was well done indeed. Good appetite to 
you!” 

“But, Zitli!” Honor was shuddering even 
while she told the ancient tale that has existed 
in many forms, in many lands, for hundreds 
of years. “It is terrible! How can you 
laugh?” 

^^Saperli! I can laugh well. He was 
rightly served, that one. To burn up people 
like straw, did he deserve better? No, my 
faith! I am all for Brother Rats, mademoi- 
selle. And in these ancient things,” added 
the boy with sudden gravity, “we see the finger 
of God, is it not so? If we would trust more 
in Him, it would be better for us, as my sister 
says. He for the great things, we for the lit- 
tle ones. As my grandfather in Botzen — Ste. 
Genevieve have him in her holy keeping — in- 
scribed over the door of his shop : 

‘‘ T trust in God, and let Him reign ; 

I make new files, and mend the old again.’ ” 

“Is Ste. Genevieve your patron, Zitli?” 


142 


HONOR BRIGHT 


"‘Assuredly, mademoiselle! that holy saint 
was a shepherdess, you understand. It is true 
that we have chiefly cattle and goats, and only 
a few sheep, which besides are stupid creatures. 
A goat is at least amusing, if he has no con- 
science, as my brother says. But since there is 
no sainted goatherd in our knowledge, we com- 
mend ourselves to the protection of the holy 
Genevieve.” 

“I thought she became a nun before she was 
seven!” said Honor, thoughtfully. “Could 
she have been a shepherdess before that, do 
you think, Zitli?” 

“With the blessed saints,” replied Zitli 
gravely, “many things are possible which 
would be difficult for ordinary persons. Is it 
not so, mademoiselle?” 

Atli came home to dinner that day; they 
must make a festa, Gretli declared, for he sel- 
dom appeared at the noon meal. Accord- 
ingly, the table was brought out on the green ; 


STORY-TELLING 


143 


Zitli, who was extraordinarily active on his 
crutches, brought green boughs from some- 
where to adorn the table; from her precious, 
carefully tended little flower bed, Gretli 
produced a bright blossom to lay by each 
plate. 

Atli, when he came up the mountain path, 
had held his hands carefully behind him, and 
had vanished into the cellar without coming 
to greet Honor; now he appeared smiling 
broadly, carrying a basket of Alpine strawber- 
ries, crimson and fragrant. 

"'My contribution to the festaF^ he an- 
nounced. "They are the first of the sea- 
son, mademoiselle! May you enjoy our 
mountain fruits, the gift of the Father of all 
fruits!” 

"Oh, how beautiful they are!” cried Honor. 
"And — oh, how sweet! they perfume the whole 
air. I wish / had something to bring to the 
festaF^ 

"Mademoiselle brings herself!” said Atli, 


144 


HONOR BRIGHT 


with a quaint bend of his broad shoulders. 
‘‘That in itself makes a festa for the Chalet 
des RochersF^ 

How gracefully he said it! How wonder- 
ful, Honor thought, that these simple shep- 
herd people should speak and move with such 
grace and dignity. No prince, surely, could 
surpass Atli ! 

Here was another picture for memory to 
treasure. The simple feast spread in the 
open, on the little space of gold-green turf: 
the Twins in their massive beauty, beaming 
friendliness; the lame boy, his plain, keen 
face no less radiant: the goats nibbling and 
frisking, the great dog watching all with calm 
benignity. 

It was a pity Honor’s picture could not in- 
clude herself, softly glowing with happiness, 
the faint wild-rose color in her cheeks, the 
lovely light in her dark blue eyes, the glory 
of red gold rippling on her shoulders; she 
might possibly have ceased for the moment 


STORY-TELLING 


145 


to sigh for night-black tresses (lying in piles 
on the velvet carpet!) and eyes that were 
starry pools of night. Dear little Honor! 

And from the friendly, smiling spot of 
brightness one had but to look up, and all 
around stood the mountains in their majesty; 
height upon height, peak upon peak, soaring 
into the intense blue of the sky. 

“Oh!” sighed Honor, drawing a long breath 
of delight. “How wonderful it is ! How can 
anyone ever live anywhere else?” 

Zitli’s eyes twinkled. “Nevertheless, 
mademoiselle,” he said, “other places are per- 
haps necessary. Our country is without doubt 
the fairest country in the world, but to place 
here all the various nations, it would be per- 
haps a little crowded.” 

“Other countries are doubtless necessary, 
since they exist!” Atli spoke with grave con- 
viction. “But Mademoiselle Honor is also 
right ; no one — no Swiss, at least, — would 
ever wish to live elsewhere. Without moun- 


146 


HONOR BRIGHT 


tains, it is to make life flat, not so? Like a 
pancake!” 

‘‘Speak no ill of pancakes!” cried Gretli 
merrily. “We are going to have them for 
supper to-night.” 

Atli’s face fell, like that of a disappointed 
child. 

“To-night?” he repeated. “When I shall 
be away? Gretli, that is ill done!” 

“Take courage, dear one!” Gretli replied. 
“Shalt have them the next night, thou! And 
who knows,” she added slyly, “what Madelon 
may have for thee to-night?” 

Atli smiled, a little sheepishly; then lifted 
his glass of whey. 

“Let us drink a toast!” he cried; “to our 
mountains! the home and the heart of the 
Switzer; the good God’s guard and rampart 
around the fairest country of the world!” 

All drank the toast: as they did so. Honor 
looked across the plateau at the Dent du Midi, 
towering in noonday splendor so bright that 


STORY-TELLING 


147 


it dazzled her eyes, and she shaded them with 
her hand. As she looked, a gleam of still 
brighter whiteness sprang from the mountain 
side, flashed downward, and was lost among 
the dark pines at its foot; a moment 
after, a sound came to their ears as of dis- 
tant thunder, or the sea breaking on a rocky 
shore. 

‘‘Ah!” cried Zitli, whose eyes had followed 
Honor’s. “Our father Mountain replies, he 
pledges us! To thee again, thou great Be- 
loved!” He waved his glass and tilted it to 
get the last drop. 

“An avalanche!” said Gretli, in reply to 
Honor’s eager question. “Often they seem 
to answer us, our beloved mountains. It may 
be chance, as brother Atli thinks; Zitli, on the 
other hand — ” 

“Zitli knows what he knows!” The boy 
nodded soberly. “It would be strange indeed 
if so great a lord as our father yonder had 
not the courtesy to respond to a toast. He 


148 


HONOR BRIGHT 


has not to learn manners, that one; on the 
contrary, he teaches them.” 

After dinner, and when he had carried in 
table and dishes (as if they were toys!) Atli 
disappeared for a while. When he came out 
again, he was resplendent in a huge green coat 
with tails and brass buttons, a brand new hat, 
and shoes polished like mirrors. In his 
snowy shirt-front was stuck a curious nosegay 
of brightly dyed edelweiss^ tied with a scarlet 
ribbon. His hair was shining with pomatum, 
and brushed as nearly smooth as its nature al- 
lowed. Honor felt a pang of disappointment; 
he was not nearly so handsome, dressed up in 
what was evidently his best, as in the loose 
shirt and breeches of every day. But Gretli 
gazed at him with fond delight. 

"‘Magnificent! Superb!” she cried. 
“What heart could resist thee, my Atli? 
Surely none that thou wilt meet to-day! A 
happy time, a safe return, and God be with 
thee!” 


STORY-TELLING 


149 


‘‘God be with thee!” cried Zitli, waving his 
crutch, and Honor, blushing crimson, mur- 
mured the wish under her breath as she 
watched the shepherd striding off down the 
path. 

“Where is he going, Gretli?” she asked 
timidly. 

“Where but to see his maiden?” cried 
Gretli, laughing. “Does one dress like that 
for any other thing? Our Atli goes a- wooing. 
Mademoiselle Honor ! Seest thou that brown 
roof yonder, where the sun shines on some- 
thing red? That is Madelon’s red scarf; she 
hangs it from her window every Thursday 
afternoon if all is well with her and the mother 
can spare her from the cheese-making. Then 
— zip ! like a chamois goes our Atli leaping — 
as you see!” 

Lying in her little white bed, that night, the 
moon a gleaming crescent over the Dent du 
Midi^ the whole world turned to black and sil- 
ver, Honor began another chapter of her story. 


150 


HONOR BRIGHT 


“Years passed. Silver threads shone in the 
raven mantle of my tresses. The stars in my 
eyes were drowned in tears; time and sorrow 
had chiseled lines in the smooth ivory of my 
brow. My heart alone was ever young, ever 
young, ever faithful; with every throb it 
pledged its troth anew to the one who — ” 
Here, I regret to say. Honor fell asleep. 


CHAPTER X 


COURTSHIP AND CASTLE-BUILDING 

There was a spare pair of crutches, it ap- 
peared; Zitli himself had made them, “in 
case!” he said with a shrug. If it was good 
to have one pair, it was better to have two; 
as now, for example, behold I 

For next day, the ankle was so greatly bet- 
ter that Honor could keep still no longer, she 
declared. The crutches were brought, and 
fitted to a marvel; she hobbled about gayly, 
delighted to be in motion again. Never in 
her life had she been still for so long a time. 

“Zitli, I’ll race you to the barn!” she cried. 

Zitli kindled responsive; but Gretli vetoed 
the proposition with massive calm. 

“With respect, nothing of the kind! 

m 


152 


HONOR BRIGHT 


“ ‘He who goes slowly, goes safe and fair; 

He who goes hastily goes to despair.’ 

It is a proverb, mademoiselle. Well I should 
look facing my Ladies and telling them that 
you had injured yourself again racing to the 
barn on crutches. Besides which, there are 
other ways of getting there.” 

Without more ado, she whipped up Honor, 
laughing and protesting, in her arms, marched 
across the green and through the barnyard, 
and deposited her on a block of wood that did 
duty for a stool. It stood in the doorway of 
the wide, low building. Sitting there, one 
had a new view, no less beautiful than that 
from the chalet; moreover, one got the full 
benefit of the chalet itself, with its wide spread- 
ing eaves, its thatched roof, with big stones 
here and there to keep it in place when the 
winter storms blew; its shining windows and 
green-painted door. 

“Oh, how pretty!” cried Honor, in delight. 
“Oh, how lovely pretty! Why aren’t all 


COURTSHIP AND CASTLE-BUILDING 153 


houses built so, I wonder, instead of tall and 
ugly, with horrid laddery stairs?” 

‘‘It would appear that people know no bet- 
ter!” said Zitli, who had followed on his 
crutches and now seated himself in the door- 
way beside her. “I have heard that only in 
our blessed country are chalets to be found; 
and even here, in our cities, the houses are 
otherwise, to one’s sorrow and shame. It is 
thus one should live!” he added, with a nod 
of conviction. “A staircase, that is more suit- 
able for monkeys than for men, hein? The 
barn is pleasant also, to my mind. Mademoi- 
selle finds it not otherwise, I trust?” 

Honor nodded emphatically, glancing 
around her at the low white-washed walls, at 
the fragrant trusses of hay and the shining pile 
of straw in the comer. A carpenter’s bench 
stood on one side, with tools ranged in precise 
order; on the other were the empty stalls where 
the cows spent their peaceful winters. 

“It is perfectly delightful!” she said. “It 


154 


HONOR BRIGHT 


is one of the dearest places I ever saw. Atli 
must be a very good farmer, isn’t he, Zitli?” 

Now it was Zitli who nodded, like a very 
mandarin. 

“There is no such farm on this Alp,” he 
said; “none better in this canton. Our herd 
is one of the first in the Book. Also our 
cheeses lead the way,” he added proudly, “but 
for those our Gretli is to thank. She also is 
a wonder, nor are we the only ones who think 
so. Ask Big Pierre; and there are others!” 
Zitli waved his hand with a sweeping gesture 
which seemed to include multitudes. 

“Who is Big Pierre, Zitli?” 

“Gretli’s bachelor, who else? I preferred 
another, Jacques the hunter, but he saw a 
white chamois and died within the year. In 
any case Gretli would have had none of him, 
because his nose was long. The longer the 
nose, the better the wit, I told her, but she 
would not listen. And Pierre is a good fel- 
low, not too stupid. Mademoiselle will see 


COURTSHIP AND CASTLE-BUILDING 155 


for herself; yesterday was Atli’s day, to-day 
is Gretli’s. Love, that makes a great deal of 
trouble, hein?'' 

Both! they were both engaged, the great 
splendid Twins! They would both marry, 
and the lame boy would be left alone. Alone 
on the Alps! Oh! Honor’s heart beat 
quickly; dream-threads began to flash through 
her mind, weaving a fantastic pattern. To be 
his sister, to keep house for him here, make 
the cheese, be in very truth a sennerin. In a 
thought she saw herself in full Swiss costume, 
moulding perfect cheeses with exquisite grace. 
She could do it all, and take care of Zitli be- 
side; she was very strong, if not very big. 
The Brother and Sister; one in heart, though 
not in blood; how lovely! 

“What — what will you do when they are 
both married, Zitli?” Honor spoke slowly; 
her eyes were shining as they did when she 
saw visions. 

“Me?” Zitli gave his quaint shrug. “If 


156 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Madelon makes good pancakes, I remain here 
— for a time ! If not, I go with Gretli. It is 
not far, to big Pierre’s, only the next Alp. 
By and by, when I am a man — ” he paused; 
his eyes too shone, as he looked straight be- 
fore him. He too saw visions. 

Honor felt a shock; felt the blood rising to 
her cheeks. She had never thought of the 
possibility of Zitli’s growing up. It had 
seemed as if he must always be as he was now. 

‘‘I shall not marry!” the boy announced, 
and shook his head decidedly. ‘‘No! Love, 
that makes trouble! Not though maidens in 
rows besought me!” 

Again he swept his arm; Honor had an 
instant’s vision of ranks of kneeling maid- 
ens with outstretched arms, imploring; she 
laughed outright. 

“How funny you are, Zitli ! What will you 
do?” 

“I shall make musical-boxes!” 

Zitli spoke rapidly and decidedly; his sup- 


COURTSHIP AND CASTLE-BUILDING 157 


pie hands shaped the boxes as he spoke. His 
plans were evidently well matured. 

‘‘Mademoiselle has seen musical boxes in 
Vevay? Long, thus? Round, thus? Again, 
square, thus, with perhaps a dancing figure 
on the top? Naturally! When I am six- 
teen, I go to Vevay to learn that trade. Al- 
ready I can make the cases, of course; that is 
for a child; the inside, that requires instruc- 
tion, hein? I am apprenticed to M. Morus, 
it is the uncle of Big Pierre; Margoton by then 
has married her cheese-merchant, I lodge with 
them.” 

Honor interrupted him. 

“How then? Margoton marries a cheese- 
merchant?” 

Never in her life, she thought, had she 
heard so much of marrying and giving in mar- 
riage. At Madame Madeleine’s, one did not 
marry. And what would they do without 
Margoton? 

“But naturally!” Zitli shrugged and 


158 


HONOR BRIGHT 


smiled. ‘The world marries, is it not so? 
Only not I! If the good God had designed 
it, he would not have suffered me to fall down 
the Alp.” 

“Oh, Zitli! was that — how did — But 
perhaps you’d rather not talk about it!” 
Honor’s cheeks were crimson, her eyes dark 
and brimming with tears of sympathy. 

Zitli cocked his head with a whimsical 
glance. “But yes! Why not, when that 
springs to the eye? I was little, see you, 
mademoiselle, little like a young cat, and I 
would go hunting chamois with Brother Atli. 
I ran away, without knowledge of my sister, 
well aware she would forbid; our parents were 
already with the saints. I had a little stick 
which I called my gun; I thought if I said, 
‘Bang!’ loud enough, the chamois would fall 
dead. I creep, I run, I follow my brother, 
wholly without noise, you understand; he has 
no knowledge of me. He comes to a steep 
crag; above — behold! a herd of chamois go 


COURTSHIP AND CASTLE-BUILDING 159 


bounding! He mounts, strong, strong, him- 
self a goat. I follow ; my foot slips ; I fall 1 et 
voilaF^ 

Honor shuddered, and covered her eyes with 
her hands. 

‘‘And— and then?” 

“Then? For a while I knew nothing. 
My brother hears my cry as I fall; he descends, 
picks me up, brings me home. My faith, I 
was well served, mademoiselle; but those 
two — ” the boy’s gay voice faltered a moment, 
but only a moment. “Me, I would have 
whipped that little rascal well!” he cried. 
“But they are different, my brother and sis- 
ter. Never one word, mademoiselle, to re- 
proach or rebuke me; never one word ! All to 
help, to care for, to spend their money — ah! 
finally, that is not to speak of. To be a saint, 
it needs not always to be dead, hein? In my 
calendar — with reverence be it said — are al- 
ways St. Atli and St. Gretli.” 

Honor was silent. She felt that it was a 


160 


HONOR BRIGHT 


very rare thing for Zitli to show his feelings 
thus. His gay smiling way was the one which 
best enabled him to bear what he had to bear. 
She laid her hand on his arm a moment; he 
nodded. 

‘Thanks, mademoiselle!” he said briefly. 
“To return! Once I am perfect in the in- 
sides — ” 

“What do you mean, Zitli?” Honor 
wiped her eyes furtively, and tried to speak 
as cheerily as the boy did. “Was there some 
internal injury as well as — ” 

Zitli stared. “The insides of the musical 
boxes, naturally! What else, mademoiselle? 
Once I am perfect, I return to my Alps, since 
boxes may be made equally there, and nowhere 
else would life be agreeable to me. I 
think — ” he knit his brows, and spoke slowly, 
as if considering; “I think to build a chalet — 
small, you understand, for one person — 
though there would be room for a guest al- 
ways — I paint it green, the outside. That 


COURTSHIP AND CASTLE-BUILDINO 161 


blends with the trees, you understand. The 
stones on the roof I paint white. That is con- 
trast, variety. Inside, all is white, white as 
La Dumaine or that wicked Seraphine. Look, 
but look, mademoiselle ! even now she tumbles 
poor Nanni over, her own aunt. Go, thou 
villain!” 

He threw a stick at Seraphine, who bounded 
into the air with a shrill bleat and disappeared 
around the corner of the barn. 

‘‘There I live. Gretli has taught me to 
cook. I have the books that the good priest 
gave me, three or four magnificent books. 
There are none like them in this Alp. I have 
my tools, my zither, my mountains about me. 
I am happy as the day is long. Ah, that is a 
life to look forward to — always since the 
brother and sister must marry. That is nat- 
ural, is it not so? But see, Gretli waves to us. 
It is to see her in her fine dress before Pierre 
comes.” 

Boy and girl hobbled back to the chMet, 


162 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Zitli going carefully and slow, and insisting 
that Honor keep pace with him. They found 
Gretli magnificent indeed in her Sunday dress ; 
this was not clumsy like Atli’s, but the prettiest 
costume imaginable: the bright blue skirt very 
full, the black velvet bodice laced with crim- 
son across the full white chemise. The latter 
was of heavy creamy linen, with wide sleeves 
coming to the elbow, the round neck embroid- 
ered in blue. Gretli’s superb hair hung in 
two heavy plaits below her waist, and perched 
on her head was an elaborate structure of stiff 
muslin, quaint but extremely becoming. A 
heavy necklace of silver beads and long silver 
ear-rings completed the gala dress of the moun- 
tain maiden. At sight of her. Honor clapped 
her hands with delight. 

“Oh, Gretli, how beautiful you are! It is 
the prettiest costume I ever saw. Oh, how I 
wish Madame Madeleine would let us wear 
mountain dress!” 

Gretli smiled with pleasure. She was de- 


COURTSHIP AND CASTLE-BUILDING 163 


lighted that it pleased mademoiselle. To be 
neat, to be not too ugly, it was to thank the 
good God for that ; but not to dwell upon these 
matters, since, as her sainted mother had said, 
the spirit knows nothing of clothes, either red 
or blue. 

“Oh,” cried Honor, “you have brought out 
the wonderful quilt. Gretli, are you going to 
finish it?” 

Gretli nodded, blushing and smiling. 

“Aha!” said Zitli, “that means that the wed- 
ding-day approaches. Is it not, my sister? 
Tell mademoiselle about that!” 

Gretli turned to the great quilt which was 
spread out elaborately on the back of a high 
settle. She seated herself, taking the unfin- 
ished corner in her hands, and began to work 
with swift, skilful stitches. 

“I should have told mademoiselle before 
about the quilt,” she said. “It is a thing of 
family, mademoiselle sees. It was begun by 
my grandmother, of sainted memory, who in 


164 


HONOR BRIGHT 


her maidenhood designed the whole and 
worked with her own hands the centre. My 
mother and her two sisters worked the three 
corners. The sisters, alas, are no longer with 
us. They died in youth. To me, then, my 
mother left the quilt, with directions that I 
should finish it before my marriage. If I had 
decided not to marry, I should have left it to 
my nearest relative, a little cousin far away in 
the valley. As it is — ” 

‘‘As it is,” cried Zitli, “here is Big Pierre, 
who, I fancy, is impatient to see it fin- 
ished!” 

A long shadow fell in the doorway, and was 
followed by a very tall young man of singular 
aspect. He was as slender as the Twins were 
massive, yet strength and vigor were in every 
line. He was tanned all one color, a deep rus- 
set brown, and his eyes were only a shade 
deeper. He was dressed in bright green, very 
much like Atli’s Sunday dress, and in his shirt 
frill was a similar stiff nosegay of dyed edel- 


COURTSHIP AND CASTLE-BUILDING 165 


weiss; in his hand he carried a huge nosegay 
of alpenrosen. 

‘‘Greeting to this house!” said the young 
man. “Greeting to Gretli, to Zitli, and to the 
strange young lady!” 

“Greeting to thee, Pierre!” said Gretli. 
“Come in quickly, and be presented to Made- 
moiselle Honor — the name of mademoiselle’s 
honored father is not for me to pronounce. 
We call her Mademoiselle Honor, Pierre. She 
is of the pupils of our honored Ladies.” 

Briefly, she told the story of Honor’s acci- 
dent, and Big Pierre glowed with sympathy. 
To turn the ankle, that was painful. He 
knew well. He himself — here he extended a 
leg of really unreasonable length — had 
sprained his, a while ago. Verily, it ap- 
peared that he would grow to his chair before 
he was able to walk again. 

Gretli and Zitli chimed in with stories of 
sprains and other accidents, until Honor felt 
that she had been very fortunate indeed to get 


168 


HONOR BRIGHT 


off so easily. Indeed, in her heart of hearts, 
she was deeply grateful to Bimbo. Without 
him and his wickedness, she would never have 
known the delight and wonder and unbeliev- 
ableness of these days. 

Friendly as Big Pierre was. Honor felt shy; 
felt too that the lovers should be left to them- 
selves. There was only the one living-room. 
She was about to ask permission to slip into 
her own room on some pretext of a nap or the 
like, when Zitli came to the rescue. Would 
Mademoiselle come with him and see his 
perch? It was but a few steps. He would 
guide her carefully. 

‘‘You can trust me, my sister,” he said. 
“She shall not fall, she shall not make the 
slightest stumble; as for the goats, I will shut 
them up in the yard and they shall not come 
near her.” 

With many cautions, Gretli consented, and 
as the boy and girl went out, they saw her take 
her seat at her embroidery, while Big Pierre 



i c 


J J 


HONOR COULD HARDI.Y SPEAK ITER DELIGHT 






i 




* 












COURTSHIP AND CASTLE-BUILDING 167 


drew his chair to her side and sitting down, 
seemed to shut up his enormous length like a 
jack-knife. 

‘All persons more than a mile high to leave 
the court!’ ” said Honor to herself. “Which 
way, Zitli?” 

Zitli led the way round the corner of the 
chalet to the north, to a spot she had not seen 
before. It was a curious nook in an angle 
of the rock wall. A jutting ledge, just the 
right height for a seat, was thickly covered 
with the same beautiful green moss that the 
girls had found in their rock parlor down be- 
low. In the crannies of the rock ferns waved, 
and delicate harebells nodded. A few feet 
below a little crystal stream fell, foaming and 
flashing down the rocks with a silver tinkle. 
It was a fairy place. 

Honor could hardly speak her delight. A 
murmured “oh!” half under her breath and a 
glance told Zitli all he wanted to know. The 
boy’s face fairly shone with pleasure. 


168 


HONOR BRIGHT 


‘‘I have kept this for mademoiselle!” he 
said. ‘‘I would not let Gretli show her. It 
is my own place.” 

‘‘It is the most beautiful place I ever saw 
in my life,” said Honor simply. 

^'TiensT said the boy, with his quaint twin- 
kle. “These are very large words, made- 
moiselle. Nevertheless, I am glad it pleases 
you. It is my own, do you see? When I 
was all little, after — after I hunted the 
chamois, you understand — there was more of 
pain than anything else for me. I was little, 
the pain was large. I saw no sense in that. 
What would you? A child does not under- 
stand. I cried, I was not to console. I made 
much trouble for that good brother and sister. 
When the pain seemed too large, one of those 
good ones would bring me here, would set me 
down, and would say, 

“ ‘My child, behold the glory of God! Be- 
hold how it is wide, how it is great, how it is 
beautiful. Do not let the pain that is in thy 


COURTSHIP AND CASTLE-BUILDING 169 


body destroy in thy soul the sense of thank- 
fulness!’ 

“Mademoiselle, that was the chief lesson of 
my childhood, that I was to be thankful. 
Since that, all my life I am thankful. I have 
no more pain, or not often and not great. 
It is no longer larger than I am. On the con- 
trary, it is small, small, by comparison. I 
laugh at it! It goes like that!” 

He picked up a pebble and sent it skipping 
down the mountain-side. 

They were silent for a time. Then Honor 
said very timidly, 

“It is good to be here with you, Zitli. I 
have learned things here that I shall never 
forget. The next time you have pain, per- 
haps you will remember that.” 

The boy gave her a quick look of pleasure. 

“Merci, mademoiselle T" he said. “I thank 
you from my heart.” 

“I have never had a boy friend,” said 
Honor. “I should like very much to have 


170 


HONOR BRIGHT 


you for a friend, Zitli. Will you have me?” 

A flush rose to the boy’s brown cheek. 

‘‘And I,” he said, “have never had a friend 
of my own age at all. What happiness for 
me, mademoiselle! Friends then, is it not 
so?” 

They shook hands gravely, and Honor drew 
a long breath of contentment. 

“Since you are my friend, I can tell you 
my thoughts about the mountains. I could 
never tell anybody before.” 


CHAPTER XI 


FAREWELL TO THE CHALET 

At fourteen, conditions establish themselves 
quickly, and become — to the fourteen-year-old 
mind — permanent. Honor had been a short 
week at the Chalet des Rochers^ and it seemed 
her home; Vevay, the Pension Madeleine, the 
girls, even dear Madame Madeleine and Soeur 
Seraphine, were like a dream. A pleasant 
dream — some day, she supposed, she must go 
back, for a time at least; she was not yet old 
enough or strong enough to be a sennerin of 
the Alps, she realized that. How surprised 
they would be when she told them — 

To the outward eye, on this beautiful June 
morning. Honor appeared an extremely pretty, 
red-haired child in a blue dress, curled up com- 
fortably in the barn doorway with bright mus- 

171 


172 


HONOR BRIGHT 


ing eyes looking out over the mountains. In 
reality — her reality — she was a woman, tall, 
grave and beautiful, dressed in full Swiss cos- 
tume, velvet bodice, embroidered apron, silver 
earrings and all the rest of it. She was re- 
ceiving with dignified cordiality her former 
friends, the friends of her childhood: the Lady 
of Virelai with her lordly husband; Stephanie, 
Patricia and the rest; was answering their 
eager questions with simple grace and candor. 
Yes, she was happy, very, very happy. This 
was the life she had chosen. Gay cities had 
beckoned to her, throngs of knights and heroes ^ 
bold had sighed to do her homage. “The 
mountains called me and I came. My brother 
Zitli and I dwell apart, in the sanctuary of Na- 
ture, at peace with all men!” 

Then she would bid them be seated, and 
would bring them cream and honey and bis- 
cuits des Rochers, and they would marvel at 
the exquisite daintiness of all her surround- 
ings; “the simplicity which is perfection!” as 


FAREWELL TO THE CHALET 173 

Soeur Seraphine said; at the calm majesty of 
her mien and carriage. Her magnificent hair 
was braided now, and hting in two heavy dark 
ropes — 

‘‘Mademoiselle ! Mademoiselle Honor ! 
where art thou? Come, my child, and see 
who is here!” 

Alas! the dignified sennerin vanished; not 
even a strand of her magnificent hair, not even 
a twinkle of her silver earrings remained. 
Only little Honor in her blue dress, her curly 
gold mane tossing about her shoulders, pulled 
herself up by the barn door, and limped across 
the green (no need of crutches now!) to meet 
— Fate, in the person of Margoton! 

Not an unkindly Fate, it would appear. 
Margoton’s massive face was radiant, Mar- 
goton’s columnar arms were outstretched; she 
was altogether a pleasant figure in her neat 
Sunday dress, with the pink ribbon in her 
snowy cap. 

“Ah, my little mademoiselle! Ah, but it 


174 


HONOR BRIGHT 


is good to see thee again. We have missed 
thee — ah, for example! my faith, it seemed 
to us all a year that thou hast been away. 
Thou art all pale, little cherished One I T tens ! 
thou regardest me with great eyes, as if I were 
a wolf! How, then! Thou art not glad to 
see Margoton?” 

‘T — I was startled!” faltered Honor. ‘T 
— didn’t know — dear Margoton, forgive me! 
but — have you come — ” 

She could not say it. She could smile 
through her tears on the kind giantess, could 
press her hand in genuine affection, but she 
could not speak. 

Margoton replied with a shower of nods. 
But yes, assuredly, she was come for made- 
moiselle, to take her home; what else? 

“Has the time seemed long to thee also, my 
little cabbage? Ah! Mademoiselle Stepha- 
nie, for example, has been a fountain of tears, 
desiring thee. A fete awaits thee Id-bas — but 
— chut! that is not to tell. Gretli has been 


FAREWELL TO THE CHALET 175 


good to thee, yes? She is not all bad, our 
Gretli!” 

The sisters beamed on each other affection- 
ately. 

‘‘One does one’s possible!” said Gretli. 

“She has been an angel,” cried Honor. “A 
perfect angel, Margoton I I never can tell — ” 

^'TiensT said Gretli cheerfully. “The 
holy angels are probably less solid than I, 
Mademoiselle. For example! it would take 
a strong pair of wings to sustain me, is it not 
so? You are to tell my honored Ladies, sis- 
ter, that M’lle Honor has been good as — bread, 
I do not say ! galette could not be better. And 
the ankle — naturally it is not yet of like 
strength with the other, that comes slowly; but 
it marches, it marches. A little week or so 
more, and Mademoiselle will be running and 
leaping like — but like that evil-disposed Sera- 
phine, whom behold yonder, annoying poor 
Nanni as of custom!” 

Good Gretli ! she had seen the tears in Hon- 


176 


HONOR BRIGHT 


or’s eyes, had marked the tremor in her voice; 
she talked on easily, giving the child time to 
recover from the surprise. To leave the 
mountains, thought Gretli, even after a short 
week; naturally that rfent the heart. Mar- 
goton had lived so long down there, she had 
forgotten — though never ceasing to love the 
mountains — how desolating it was to leave 
them. Ah, yes ! and the little one had a moun- 
tain heart, that was to say a heart of gold. 

“Figure to thyself what Mademoiselle has 
done this morning!” she cried, as they walked 
slowly toward the chalet, the sisters regulating 
their powerful stride by Honor’s limping little 
steps. “She has made a cheese!” 

“My faith!” cried Margoton. “For exam- 
ple! that was well done.” 

“Well done indeed!” Gretli nodded saga- 
ciously. “When I tell thee that it is a cream 
cheese of the most perfect! Had she passed 
her life on the Alp, it could have been no bet- 


FAREWELL TO THE CHALET 177 


‘‘You helped me, Gretli!” said downright 
Honor. “I couldn’t have done it by my- 
self.” 

“Naturally! that understands itself. A lit- 
tle advice here or there, what is that? I tell 
thee, sister, friend Gruyere has no better 
cheese in his shop this day; and were it not 
that my honored Ladies might like it for their 
supper, I would send it to him, demanding a 
fancy price, my faith!” 

M. Gruyere was the cheese merchant to 
whom Margoton was betrothed. Honor knew 
him well by sight, a little dried-up, snuff-col- 
ored man, who might go into Margoton’s 
pocket, she thought. 

“He goes always well, this good Gruyere?” 
asked Gretli. 

Margoton shook her head. Not too well, 
it appeared. He had been assassinated by 
rheumatism this past week; in the legs it 
seized him, in the arms, everywhere. To hear 
his cries, that lacerated the heart. 


178 


HONOR BRIGHT 


‘‘He needs a wife, that one!” said Gretli 
slyly. 

Margoton assented calmly. It was true, 
she said. He had no sense. Another year 
or so, when the garden had so to speak grown 
up a little more, understood itself as it were, 
one might begin to think about that. At pres- 
ent, with the cabbages what they were, and 
the snails devastating the cauliflowers, and the 
peas annihilated by a malediction of black rust, 
it was out of the question. 

“Mademoiselle asks nothing about the pen- 
sion?^^ Margoton dismissed the unfortunate 
Gruyefe with a wave of the hand, and turned 
smiling to Honor. “These other demoiselles 
are in a despair till they behold her; as I said. 
M. le Professeur, when he came yesterday — 
for the lesson of French history, as Made- 
moiselle knows — actually his venerable coun- 
tenance was to make weep when he found 
no M’lle. Honor. ‘Where is my Fair One with 
golden locks?’ demands that poor gentleman. 


FAREWELL TO THE CHALET 179 


‘I have prepared a genealogy of the Merovin- 
gians for her; she has the historical sense, that 
young person.’ I heard it with my ears, 
Mademoiselle.” 

“What is that, Merovingian?” asked Gretli. 
“It sounds like a cheese, but I know of no 
such.” 

“They were early kings of France!” said 
Honor, brightening a little. “First the 
Merovingians, then the Carlovingians, then 
the Capets. St. Louis was a Capet, you 
know.” 

Both sisters nodded vigorously. “That was 
a very holy saint!” said Gretli. “His good- 
ness to the poor was well known. He also 
washed the feet of holy pilgrims. Also there 
was Louis XVI, a martyr, as every child knows. 
Ah! that unhappy France! what terrible his- 
tories! To be Swiss,” she added; “that is 
to pray for, if these things were in our hands, 
which the good God has in nowise permitted. 
M’lle Stephanie found herself not too ill. Mar- 


180 


HONOR BRIGHT 


goton, after the attack of that thoughtless ani- 
mal?” 

‘‘Oh, yes!” Honor’s heart smote her. 
What a selfish creature she v/as! she had not 
thought of poor Stephanie all these days. 

“Do tell us how Stephanie is, Margoton! 
I hope she was not really hurt.” 

It was Gretli who answered, a shade of as- 
perity in her kind voice. 

“She was hurt, Mademoiselle, as much as 
a flea is hurt that falls on a featherbed. Pre- 
cisely so much, and no more. Did she not 
knock you down and descend upon your pros- 
trate form? I ask you ! Not of her free will, 
I grant you, but so it was. She was fright- 
ened, she rent the air with her shrieks, the 
mountains rang with them; but of injury — ah! 
for example! not one particle of that, believe 
me!” 

Margoton demurred; was not her sister per- 
haps a trifle severe? There was a bruise on 
the child’s forehead, that was visible to the 


FAREWELL TO THE CHALET 181 


eye. There was no doubt that Bimbo was an 
evil beast. To attack from behind like that; 
Margoton asked you, was that well-conducted? 

‘‘He had provocation!” cried Gretli. “I 
do not wholly defend our Bimbo; he has the 
faults of youth, and of his nature. A goat, 
that is not a philosopher, hein? But, it is a 
fact that he had provocation. Who in her 
senses would bring a scarlet parasol to a chalet 
of the Alps? No! my faith, that was not well 
done. A bruise on the forehead? That is a 
small matter indeed; while behold our little 
Mademoiselle here a prisoner for a whole week, 
deprived of her studies, of her companions, 
of—” 

“But yet,” added Gretli quickly, seeing 
Honor’s eyes starry with tears again, “she has 
not been altogether unhappy, hein^ M’lle 
Honor? And to stay once at the Chalet des 
Rochers, that is to stay again; it is like that. 
Mademoiselle will come again in the autumn, 
is it not so, to see the homecoming of the herd? 


182 


HONOR BRIGHT 


That is another festival of our mountains, dear 
to our hearts. Now — a little gouter, is it not 
so? Before making the descent; a glass of 
cream, a little honey, a biscuit — hold! that I 
bring them on the instant!” 

There was little packing to do. M’me 
Madeleine had sent a few necessaries by post, 
and these were all too quickly made into a 
neat roll. A basket must be packed, with 
Honor’s cream cheese for the Ladies’ supper, 
a bottle of whey and a packet of biscuits in 
case of hunger or thirst during the journey. 
While Gretli was bustling about on these mat- 
ters, chatting the while with her sister of af- 
fairs here at the chalet, there at the Maison 
Madeleine, Honor stole into her little room to 
say good-by. How homelike it had grown! 
how she loved the little bed with its four faces 
smiling from the posts! Matthew, Mark, 
Luke and John, she named them; they had 
certainly blessed the bed that she lay on. 
The carvings on the narrow shelf, Zitli’s work, 


FAREWELL TO THE CHALET 183 


as she now knew; the windows through which 
the mountains greeted her so kindly morning, 
noon and evening, with a new glory for every 
time of day or night ; even the bare walls, with 
their fresh rough plaster, white as snow, were 
dearer to her than any imaginable hangings 
or tapestries of queens’ palaces. 

“Good-by!” said Honor softly. “Good-by, 
dear room ! good-by, dear little chalet, and all 
the tiny cows and goats! I’ll come back to 
you some day!” 

‘‘On the Alp the grass is sweetest, 

Li-u-o, my Queen!” 

Zitli’s voice sounded clear and sweet from 
the garden patch where he was working. 
Honor leaned out of the window. “Zitli, 
wait!” she cried. “I am going! I am com- 
ing!” 

Zitli looked up with a twinkle. “How then. 
Mademoiselle? Coming and going, both at 
once { 


184 


HONOR BRIGHT 


In another moment Honor had joined him, 
and with trembling voice and brimming eyes 
was telling h^r sad little story. Margoton had 
come for her. As soon as Atli came from the 
Alp, she must go; must leave the Chalet des 
Rochers and go back to the hot, dusty town, 
to schoolbooks and school talk. How could 
she bear it? 

Zitli’s bright face grew sober; he pondered 
a moment, leaning on his hoe. 

^^Sapperli poppetteF’ h6 murmured. 
‘This is an apoplexy for us indeed. Made- 
moiselle.” 

“Say ‘Honor,’ ” cried the girl. “We are 
friends, Zitli. Why should you call me 
Mademoiselle?” 

Zitli shook his head decidedly. As to the 
why, he was not altogether clear. To begin 
with, that did not say itself in his tongue ; not, 
at least, with any degree of comfort. And be- 
sides, the sisters and brother called her Made- 
moiselle, doubtless because it was fitting; he 


FAREWELL TO THE CHALET 185 


would prefer to do as they did, with Honor’s 
permission. 

‘‘And for the departure, — ” the boy looked 
up, and his face was bright again, — “My 
brother and sister,” he announced, “have in- 
structed me thus. Mademoiselle. That which 
we do ourselves, for that we may be glad or 
sorry, according as it is done well or ill. That 
which the good God sends, for that we are to 
be thankful, whatever it is, since He ^ sends 
nothing without reason. It was thus my re- 
vered grandmother instructed them, and they 
me in turn. So, though — ” he made a quaint 
grimace, — “though it is very grievous for me 
to have Mademoiselle go away, still I say to 
myself, ‘She goes to school,’ to learn wonder- 
ful things out of books. Ah! Mademoiselle, 
what happiness! hold! but when I am ap- 
prenticed to the maker of musical boxes, I, 
too, shall have some schooling, he has prom- 
ised it. Not, of course, such as Mademoiselle 
has with the holy Ladies, but in some meas- 


186 


HONOR BRIGHT 


ure, yes! Books! ah, my faith! that is to 
dream of, hein?^^ 

Honor looked at him, wondering. His face 
was like a lamp. Books? Of course, one al- 
ways had books ; some of them were good, but 
others were dull. 

‘‘But — but you have the mountains, Zitli,” 
she cried. 

A perfect shower of nods responded. “Ah ! 
yes! I return to the mountains, that under- 
stands itself. But with a little learning, too, 
all I can get, my faith ! I shall love my moun- 
tains the better for it, and they also will un- 
derstand. They are not ignorant fellows, 
those!” 

He nodded toward the grave giants, who 
seemed to watch them kindly. “And — who 
knows. Mademoiselle? We may meet some 
day in Vevay. I might even sell Mademoiselle 
a cheese, if old Gruyere would permit it. My 
faith! if my sister Margoton waits too long, 
that one will dry up and blow away. Better 


FAREWELL TO THE CHALET 187 

might she marry a cockchafer, to my thinking. 
But he is a kind man, and a sober,” he added 
hastily. Honor knew he was thinking of 
Uncle Kissel. 

Now Gretli was heard calling. 

“I must go!” cried Honor. ‘‘We will 
surely meet in Vevay, Zitli. You will come 
to see me, won’t you? And you’ll tell me — ” 
Both were hobbling as fast as they could, 
for Gretli sounded imperative, though cheer- 
ful. Sure enough, when they reached the 
front of the chalet, there was Atli, smiling his 
broadest (which was very broad!) and holding 
in his hands a curious kind of chair; canvas 
seat, wooden arms, with an arrangement of 
straps and buckles fastened to the top. These 
straps, he explained, went round his neck and 
waist ; one even encircled his head. As thus ! ^ 
Suiting the action to the word, with Gretli’s 
help he assumed the harness, shifting a strap 
here, a buckle there, till, he said, it was easy 
enough to sleep in. 


188 


HONOR BRIGHT 


‘‘Now if Mademoiselle will take her seat, 
she will find herself as if in the pocket of 
Ste. Genevieve!” he declared, as Gretli 
had declared a week ago. Ah! a week 
ago! 

Honor flung herself into Gretli’s arms, mur- 
muring in a half-choked voice her good-by, 
thanks, love, many things that at fourteen one 
feels as never before or after. The good 
giantess was quite overcome, and returned the 
caress heartily. 

“Au revoir, my little Mademoiselle,” she 
cried. “Till thou comest again, my cabbage ! 
ah! for example! thou takest our hearts with 
thee, little one!” 

“Good-by, Zitli!” said Honor, making a 
brave effort to steady her voice. She would 
not cry any more ! 

“Don’t forget me, Zitli!” 

Sap peril poppetteT^ Zitli’s own eyes 
were suspiciously bright, and he was blinking 
hard. “Does one forget the sunshine. Made- 


FAREWELL TO THE CHALET 189 

moiselle? And — and remember the cheese I 
am to sell you!” 

‘‘All ready, Atli! oh, yes, as comfy as can 
be, thank you! Good-by, dear, dear chalet! 
Good-by, Gretli! good-by, Zitli! don’t forget 
me ! Oh ! there are the goats ! good-by, 
Nanni, Seraphine, Moufflon ! where— oh, there 
is Bimbo! Good-by, dear Bimbo! and thank 
you, oh, thank you a hundred thousand times, 
for knocking me down!” 

A waving hand ; a bright head turning ever 
backward for a last look ; a clear voice calling, 
faint and fainter as the big shepherd strode 
down the mountain path; so Honor left her 
Alps, and went back to her other world. 


CHAPTER XII 


STORMY WEATHER 

“What is it?” asked Honor. “Is it a birth- 
day? Whose, then?” 

“Goose!” said Patricia Desmond. “It is a 
re-birthday, don’t you see? You died up 
there — or any one else would have died — of 
sheer dullness ; now you are alive again, that’s 
all. Don’t be stupid, Moriole!” 

The dining room of the Pension Madeleine 
was ablaze with lights; there must have been 
fully a dozen candles, where ordinarily two 
sufficed. The table was decked with flowers 
and bonbons; the best china was displayed, 
that with the roses and the gold sprig, even to 
the four tall compotieres which seldom 
emerged from their cupboard. Now they 
stood at the four corners of the table, filled 

190 


STORMY WEATHER 


191 


with translucent preserves of Madame’s very 
best; peach, apricot, greengage, nectarine. 
Little Loulou heaved a sigh of rapture, and 
clasped her hands. 

‘‘Ah! Moriole,” she cried, “how we are 
glad of thy return!” 

Seeing Honor stand bewildered, Madame 
came forward and took her by the hand. 

“It is for thee, little one!” she said in her 
kind, cordial voice. “It is thy festival of re- 
turn. Welcome back, my child, to our home 
and to our hearts!” 

She must not cry! it would be wicked, not 
to say ridiculous. She must be glad, and 
thankful. Honor clenched her hands and 
shook herself; no tears fell, though her eyes 
brimmed with them. Her voice trembled as 
she stammered out her thanks, but it was full 
of real affection and gratitude. How dear it 
was of them! how kind they all were! and how 
could they possibly know? 

She sat in the place of honor at Madame’s 


192 


HONOR BRIGHT 


right hand. Next her was Patricia, regally 
beautiful in pale green organdie, which set 
off her exquisite fairness to perfection. Op- 
posite was Stephanie, in her best frock of red 
silk, with narrow black velvet ribbon — three 
rows of it — on skirt and bodice. (Floods of 
tears had been shed over this ribbon. Ste- 
phanie wanted five rows; her thrifty mother 
considered two enough ; it was Honor who sug- 
gested the compromise of three, and restored 
harmony to the household.) 

Vivette, too, was in her best, the black al- 
paca which was only less rusty than the one 
she wore every day. Vivette, so pretty, who 
might be made so chic if one could only dress 
her properly. How often had Honor and Pa- 
tricia debated as to how they would dress Vi- 
vette had they but the power! Patricia was 
for apricot velvet with topazes; Honor main- 
tained that Nile green satin with emeralds was 
the only thing. Vivette, stolidly French, 
smiled, and thanked them both, but was en- 


STORMY WEATHER 


193 


tirely satisfied with the suitability of her sober 
dress. 

Jacqueline de la Tour de Provence sat next 
Vivette, all in white. It was the gala costume 
of her House, she whispered to Honor. The 
La Tour de Provences never rejoiced in colors. 
She spoke gravely, conveying the impression 
that the wearing of white had originated in, 
and was confined to, the House of which she 
spoke. A smile trembled on Honor’s lips, but 
she suppressed it, and gave a glance of appre- 
ciation instead. This too was kindly meant. 

Among all the bright faces glowing with 
pleasure and affection was one which startled 
Honor as she glanced round the table. Maria 
Patterson sat in her accustomed place between 
Rose Marie and little Loulou, both of whom 
were bubbling with joyous talk; she paid no 
attention to them, nor, it seemed, they to her. 
Her eyes were bent on her plate ; her face was 
dark and gloomy. Never an attractive girl, 
there was, it struck Honor, something tragic 


194 


HONOR BRIGHT 


in Maria’s face now. What could be the mat- 
ter? Had she had bad news from home, or 
was she ill? Honor’s sympathy was ready to 
flow in any direction ; sad at heart herself, she 
felt strangely out of place in this gay party. 
Was poor Maria sad too? Honor tried to 
catch her eye, but without success; the girl 
never looked up from her plate, but ate her 
supper in sullen silence. 

The dessert appeared; a wonderful Char- 
lotte Russe, Honor’s favorite dish; orange jelly 
with whipped cream; little cakes in profusion, 
white, pink, brown. 

‘‘Ah! Moriole,” sighed the descendant of 
good Queen Bertha; “would you might return 
to us every day, cherished one!” 

Now appeared pretty, smiling Sophie, trim- 
mest and most correct of maids, bearing a great 
jug of crystal and gold, the glory of the Pen- 
sion. It had been given to Madame by the 
Countess of Lablache-Tournay, “her affection- 
ate and ever-grateful pupil,” as the inscription 


STORMY WEATHER 


195 


read. It was filled with ‘‘nectar,” Madame’s 
own special compound of orgeat, raspberry 
syrup and lemon, which must be tasted to be 
appreciated. The tall glasses were filled; 
Madame Madeleine rose, and in a few simple 
words welcomed “their beloved young friend, 
pupil, compagne, whose absence had darkened 
the horizon of their family life, whose return 
once more brought light and joy to their little 
circle. As was well known, Madame had lit- 
tle knowledge of the majestic language which 
was the native speech of their dear Honor, and 
of several other of her young friends. She 
would ask her sister to express for them both, 
in English, the sentiments which at the present 
auspicious moment filled their bosoms. 

With an affectionate glance and a wave of 
her kind hand, Madame sat down, and.Soeur 
Seraphine rose to her feet. There was a flush 
on the clear rose-white of the little Sister’s 
cheek; her voice trembled as she began. 

“My dear Honor, and young ladies; eet ees 


196 


HONOR BRIGHT 


wiz grand plaisir — pardon! eet ees wiz ’eart- 
felt plaisure zat I bid you vonce more veil 
come to Pension Madeleine. We ’ave 
meessed you treestfulli. Ze ’ouse vas not ze 
semm wizout La Moriole, ze birrd of plumage 
d^or^ of golden fezzaires I should to say. And 
zou, petite^ hast also been long for ze pension^ 
nest-ce pas? As says ze poete Jonovard 
Payne, 

‘‘Be eet evair so ombel, 

Zere’s no place like ’ome!” 

And ze immortel Shakspire, ’e say also — n’im- 
porte! zat escape from my mind. We oz- 
zaires, in Pension Madeleine, ve are not poete, 
ve ’ave not ze genie, but our ’earts zey seeng 
wiz joy, and yet von time ve bid veil-come back 
our dear Honor!” 

Soeur Seraphine kissed her hand to Honor, 
and sat down amid tumultuous applause. 

‘‘Speech!” cried Patricia. “Speech!” 
cried all the girls, echoing the cry in varying 


STORMY WEATHER 


197 


shades of English; all save Maria Patterson, 
who still sat, an image of gloom, staring at 
her plate. 

Blushing and tearful. Honor rose. 

‘‘Thank you! oh, thank you all!” she cried. 
“I am so — so glad to see you all again. Dear 
Madame, dear Sister, you are perfectly angelic 
to give me this lovely party. I — I can’t say 
anything but thank you, but I do, with all my 
heart!” 

She could at least say this. She was glad 
to see them, all the dear good friends. Not to 
come back — no ! no ! to say that would be tell- 
ing a lie; but to see the kind, friendly faces, 
to hear the welcoming voices — of course she 
was glad ! she would be a wicked, wicked girl 
if she were not. 

At last the feast was over, and after grace 
and reverences^ the girls swept out laughing 
and chattering, into the garden. Here they 
surrounded Honor, seizing her hands, pulling 
her this way and that, all talking at once. 


198 


HONOR BRIGHT 


“This way, Honor! come with me!” 

moi, Moriole! I have a thousand things 
to say to thee. Ah! for example, Loulou, 
cease thy pushing, little imbecile!” 

“There’s no particular sense in smothering 
Honor to death!” drawled Patricia. “I pre- 
fer her alive myself. Sit down here on the 
bench, Moriole! I’ll keep them off you with 
this rake.” 

Honor sat down, out of breath, and looked 
round. Stephanie, Patricia, Rose Marie, Vi- 
vette, — were they all here? No! 

“Girls,” she asked abruptly, “what’s the 
matter with Maria Patterson?” 

Silence. The girls all looked at each other; 
then they looked at Patricia. No one except 
Honor was very fond of Patricia; her tongue 
was too biting, and she was too openly con- 
temptuous of them all — still excepting La 
Moriole; but they admired as much as they 
feared her, and were accustomed to follow her 
lead, even Stephanie, who detested her. 


STORMY WEATHER 


199 


Patricia now looked up with a peculiar 
smile that Honof knew well, and gave a little 
shrug of her graceful shoulders. 

^‘Maria Patterson? My dear, she has 
ceased to exist, for us. As to what is the mat- 
ter with her” — another shrug. ‘‘What does it 
matter what is the matter with her? Pouf! 
I blow her away. Tell us about your exile, 
child! we are all dying to hear.” 

“Not till I know about Maria!” Honor’s 
tone was resolute; she was not in the least 
afraid of Patricia. 

“And why this sudden interest in Maria 
Patterson, if I may ask?” Patricia was still 
smiling in the way Honor knew and did not 
like. “She never was your heart’s own that 
I know of, cherie. What, I say, does it mat- 
ter about her? We are all happy, aren’t 
we?” 

''Voyons, Patricia! tell her!” said Vivette. 
“We know our Moriole. When her face sets 
in that manner, she is Gibraltar in person. If 


200 


HONOR BRIGHT 


we want to hear anything, we must first tell; 
that sees itself.” 

“Tell yourself, then!” Patricia yawned 
delicately. “The subject fails to interest 
me.” 

Honor turned to Vivette, whose honest face 
was pleasanter to look on at this moment than 
that of the school beauty. 

“Marie is — avay!” said Vivette. “She is 
vat you call in Cov-en-tri. There are six days, 
we speak her not, we look her not.” 

“But why? What has the poor thing 
done?” 

“She has thiefed!” Vivette spoke low, 
with a glance over her shoulder. ^‘Chut! 
Madame knows not, nor our Sister. Solely 
of ourselves we de-cide to — vat vord is dat, 
Patricia? Carve? Cot?” 

“Oh, do hush, Vivette!” said Patricia rather 
rudely. “You make my ears ache. If you 
must know. Honor, the poor thing — as you 
call her — and as she certainly is — stole a ring 


STORMY WEATHER 


201 


from my jewel-box. There ! are you satisfied? 
We were not sent here to consort with thieves, 
so we have simply — shall I say eliminated 
her? As I told you, she no longer exists.” 

“Oh, Patricia! Oh, girls! there must be 
some mistake!” 

Genuinely distressed. Honor looked from 
one face to another. But now an excited bab- 
ble broke out, the shrill young voices rising 
higher and higher. 

Maria had always been a sneak, Moriole 
knew she had. She was a tale-bearer, a med- 
dler, a spy. She was always poking her nose 
into other people’s affairs; and so on and so 
on. 

Honor listened, her eyes growing wider and 
wider, as they did when she was troubled. 
Suddenly her cheeks flushed; her heart began 
to beat violently. She seemed to hear a voice 
speaking; a rich, mellow voice, with the sound 
of bells in it. 

“And thus it is our custom to allow no evil 


202 


HONOR BRIGHT 


to be spoken of any person without a good 
word being added by each one of the fam- 
ily.” 

Honor covered her face with her hands. 

‘‘If I had dark hair,” she said to herself, “I 
could do it! If I had dark hair, I could do 
it!” 

Then suddenly she looked up, first at Pa- 
tricia’s beautiful, scornful face, then at the 
others, all excited, all full of anger. 

“Maria is very tidy!” she said. “Her 
bureau drawers are beautiful, and you know 
she got the prize for the best-made bed last 
year.” 

For a moment all the girls stared, open- 
mouthed; then Patricia laughed her little sil- 
ver laugh. 

“Even if so?” she said. “We allow her 
that lofty virtue ! My ring was in her pocket, 
you understand, my dear. Come, Moriole!” 
she added in a different tone. “A promise is 
a promise. We have told you what you 


STORMY WEATHER 


203 


wanted, now it is your turn. What did you 
do in that place during seven whole days? 
We must know!” 

‘‘I cannot!” thought Honor. And then — 

“I mustr 

‘‘Come then!” she said. “Sit down, all of 
you! The sand is as dry as dry. Loulou, 
I cannot tell if you hop on one foot. Listen 
then!” 

She told them about the spinning and knit- 
ting; about the bridal quilt; about pretty 
Madelon, whom she had not seen, and Big 
Pierre, whom she had; about the carving, and 
all the marvels and mysteries of cheese- 
making. 

About her three friends themselves she 
could not talk, she found. And no one knew, 
no one cared, no one could possibly under- 
stand — 

“And I made the cheese all myself, the one 
we had for supper. Was it good?” 

“Good? It was mirific! You made it 


204 


HONOR BRIGHT 


yourself ? Ah ! Bah ! Gretli let you stir it, 
pat it a little, like* that!” 

“Gretli did not touch it with the end of her 
finger! She told me, of course, what to do. 
‘Take this and that! do thus and so!’ but not 
a finger did she put to it. Wait a little! 
When Margoton next has sour cream, I will 
make another, and you will see.” 

“It must have been rather fun!” said Vi- 
vette. “I should like to make cheese, I think. 
Will you teach me, Moriole?” 

“My dear! it would ruin your hands!” 
Jacqueline examined her own pearly finger- 
tips, over which she spent much of the “med- 
itation hour” when we sat alone in our little 
rooms and were supposed to think of holy 
things. Then with a glance at Vivette’s 
brown, rather stubby hands, she added, “But 
it might not after all make so much differ- 
ence!” 

“But, Moriole!” said Stephanie, who had 
been listening eagerly, “the animals ! all those 


STORMY WEATHER 


205 


terrible animals! were you not in perpetual 
terror? Me, I never expected to see you alive 
again. I wept the whole of every night — ” 

‘‘Thou snorest prettily in thy sleep all the 
same, Stephanie!” cried Rose Marie. “Heav- 
ens! it was a litany to all the saints at once!” 

“You shan’t tease my Stephanie!” Honor 
was slipping back naturally into her school 
attitude of championing the weak. “Stepha- 
nie dear, the animals were darling; but per- 
fectly darling! You have only to learn to 
know them. Why, Bimbo ate bread from my 
hand, and danced for me when I held his fore- 
feet. It is true he tried to butt me every 
day, but he never succeeded. Zitli was too 
quick, and always caught him over the nose 
with his crutch.” 

“The lame boy? Was he possible at all. 
Honor?” It was Jacqueline who asked. 
“Of course the big Twins are very nice in their 
way: but to be shut up a whole week in a 
peasant hovel with — ” 


206 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Honor’s eyes flashed; she felt the blood 
surging into her cheeks, and she clenched her 
hands tight in the vain effort to keep it down. 

‘"A hovel?” she cried, and her voice trem- 
bled, spite of all she could do. ‘‘The Chalet 
des Rochers is simply the most delightful 
house I ever was in. The people are the dear- 
est and best people — except Madame and our 
Sister — I have ever seen, and the week I spent 
there was the happiest time of my whole life!” 


CHAPTER XIII 

THE WAY TO COVENTRY 

Honor lay awake a long time that first night 
after her return. Her mind was too full of 
what Vivette called ‘‘thinks.” (“Often- 
times,” said poor Vivi, “I have in the night 
sorry thinks!” That was when she had the 
toothache, which explained matters.) Her 
body lay in its own bed — the plain little white 
enameled bed; no quaint faces of friendly 
apostles to bless it! Her mind was away at 
the Chalet; the eyes of her spirit were gazing 
through the little square window at the great 
snow mountain, towering in the blue-black 
sky thick-set with stars, “rising like a cloud 
of incense from the earth.” In her ears was 
the low tinkle of musical bells, as the goats 

207 


208 


HONOR BRIGHT 


moved hither and thither, browsing on the 
short turf. 

"‘If only I could hear it always!” sighed 
Honor. “If only every night I could go back, 
like the Enchanted Fawn! I would sing, as 
she did, only change the words a little: 

“ "Say, how is my Gretli, 

And how are they all? 

Oh, say but the word, 

And I’ll come at your call!’ ” 

How cool and sweet the air came in at the 
window, the breath of the Mountain himself! 
(Honor was nearly asleep now, and really fan- 
cied herself at the Chalet ! ) How clear and — 
silvery — the bells — hark! — who was crying? 
Gretli was asleep ; goats could not cry — 

All of a sudden Honor came wide awake, 
and sat up in bed, listening. Some one was 
crying! not far from her; long, heavy sobs, 
full of a dull, hopeless pain. Where — what 
— who? Honor put out her hand and en- 
countered the smooth iron of her bed. Of 


THE WAY TO COVENTRY 209 


course! she was at home, in Pension Made- 
leine I In the cell on her right was Stephanie : 
in that on the left — Maria Patterson. 

It was from the left that the sobs came. 
Honor listened intently; dreadful sobs; her 
heart ached to hear them 1 She slipped 
quietly out of bed, turned the handle of the 
door noiselessly, groped for the next handle — 
another moment and she was beside Maria, 
where she sat sobbing in her bed; her warm 
arms were pressing close the cold, shivering 
body, her smooth cheek was laid against the 
other, wet with bitter tears. 

“Maria! don’t, my dear! don’t cry! hush! 
oh, poor thing, hush! there! there!” 

Honor rocked back and forth, as if she were 
soothing a little child. Pity flowed from her 
like a warm current; she felt the rigid form 
relax, the head sink on her shoulder. The 
sobs continued, but they were less heavy and 
dreadful, more like natural crying. 

“There! there!” repeated Honor. “Now 


210 


HONOR BRIGHT 


you are better, dear. Let me cover you up a 
little; you are half frozen.” 

“Is it — is it Honor?” Maria spoke in a 
broken whisper. 

“Yes! but let me rub your hands, Maria! 
Fm going to get my hot-water bottle!” 

“No! no! don’t leave me! stay just a little 
longer! You don’t know — or did they tell 
you?” 

“You shall tell me!” Honor gently forced 
Maria to lie down, and tucked the bed-clothes 
round her. “Lie still a moment, and I’ll come 
back.” 

In three minutes she was back with the hot- 
water bottle. 

“There! it’s not very hot, just right to hold 
in your hands. Now tell — no, I won’t take 
cold ; I have my wrapper on, and it’s warm as 
soup. Tell me all about it, Maria!” 

Maria drew a long sobbing breath. 

“How good you are!” she said. “But you 
won’t believe me. Honor: nobody would; and 


THE WAY TO COVENTRY 


211 


then you will go, and I shall be all alone in the 
world!” 

"‘Nonsense!” said Honor decidedly. “I 
shall believe you ! Go ahead ! ” 

Brokenly, in a voice shaken by sobs, with 
bursts of bitter weeping, Maria told her piteous 
story; how she had seen and admired the ring 
on Patricia’s finger; a curious little ring, a 
circle of gold wire with a tiny golden mouse 
running loose on it. She wanted to see how 
it went; Patricia hated her so, she could not 
ask. Then — one day — Patricia’s door was 
open, and Maria knew she was in the garden. 

“Honor, I didn’t mean any harm! I swear 
to you I didn’t mean any harm. I went in, 
and the ring was on the pincushion, and I tried 
it on, and — and — ^just then Sophie came in, 
and I didn’t want her to see me with it, and 
I slipped it into my pocket, meaning to put 
it back when she had gone out — oh, dear! oh, 
dear! how could I?” The wailing sobs broke 
out again. 


212 


HONOR BRIGHT 


‘‘Quiet! quiet!” Honor was stroking her 
forehead with a firm soft hand. “There! 
there! Go on! You meant to put it back; 
of course you did. And then — ” 

“The bell rang for class, and Sophie was 
still there, sweeping, you know — and I had 
to go. It was dictee^ and you know that takes 
all there is of me, and then I can’t do it de- 
cently ! Honor, could any one believe I could 
forget it — the ring, I mean? I did! oh, truly, 
truly I did! And out in the garden at recess 
— I pulled out my handkerchief, and — 
and—” 

“And out it came!” Honor finished for her. 
“Of course I believe every word, Maria. Of 
course any one would who had any sense. 
Didn’t you tell Patricia? Didn’t you tell 
them all, that moment?” 

“I couldntr Maria’s voice fell into an 
agonized whisper. “I couldrit. Honor! Pa- 
tricia looked at me — oh, pray to God that 
no one will ever look so at you as long as 


THE WAY TO COVENTRY 213 


you live!” cried the poor girl. “And she 
said—” 

“What did she say? Quiet, my dear! 
quiet! words never killed anybody!” 

“She said, ^Tiens! are there two mouse- 
rings in the Pension? Or perhaps only one?’ 
Then she picked it up and went away, and I 
saw her telling the other girls. None of them 
has spoken to me since then!” 

“You poor child! what a wicked, wicked 
shame!” 

“Do you — do you really believe me. 
Honor?” 

Maria spoke timidly, and in the half dark- 
ness of the room. Honor could feel her eyes 
peering anxiously into her own. 

“Of course I believe you!” she cried. 
“Every single word, Maria. Nobody could 
possibly doubt you. Of course it was a pity, 
and a silly thing to do, and all that; but — 
why — there’s nothing dreadful about it, Maria. 
It has only to be explained, and every one will 


214 


HONOR BRIGHT 


understand in a minute, and everything will 
be all right. You see if it isn’t!” 

“But I can’t explain 1 How can I, when no 
one will speak to me? It’s no use, Honor!” 

“I’ll explain! I’ll tell the girls all about 
it to-morrow, after breakfast, and then every- 
thing will be all right. Now you must go to 
sleep like a good girl. Shut your eyes and 
let go, and I’ll sing to you.” 

Exhausted with misery and weeping, Maria 
was only too glad to shut her eyes and “let 
go,” while Honor, still stroking her forehead, 
crooned softly, 

‘‘On the Alp the grass is sweetest, 

Li-u-o, my Queen!’ ” 

It was midnight when Honor, chilly but 
happy, crept back to bed, leaving Maria fast 
asleep. She nestled down on her pillow coz- 

ily. 

“Play the heads are here!” she murmured. 
“Play they are smiling at me: 


THE WAY TO COVENTRY 215 


‘‘Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, 

Bless the bed that I lie on!” 

Honor was sleepy enough next morning 
after her vigil; but the thought of what she 
had to do soon roused her, She ran into 
Maria’s room, hairbrush in hand; it was not 
permitted, but she could explain; the Sister 
would understand. 

‘‘Hush! listen!” she cried. “Don’t come 
out in the garden after breakfast, Maria! 
Come straight back here, and wait till I 
come for you. It will be all right, see if it 
isnt!” 

Poor Maria, her eyes swollen with weeping, 
gave her a look of such dog-like devotion and 
gratitude that Honor could only give her a 
pat in return, and hurry away. Her heart 
was beating high. It was a shame; but they 
had not known; they had not understood; in 
a little hour now, all would be well. 

How slow they were at breakfast ! It 
seemed as if the meal would never end. No- 


216 


HONOR BRIGHT 


body looked at Maria; none of the girls at 
least. Soeur Seraphine cast a keen glance at 
her swollen, discolored face ; one, and then an- 
other; but said nothing. Madame called from 
the head of the table, "‘Marie, thou dost not 

UK. 

eat, my child! How then! It is necessary 
to eat; finish at least thy little bread!” 

Maria crumbled her roll, and made a pre- 
tence of eating. 

“Tiens/” said Soeur Seraphine. “The 
child is without appetite, my sister. I my- 
self will give her a cup of tea presently. That 
encourages the stomach.” 

After what seemed a really interminable 
time, the girls streamed out once more into 
the garden. It was the custom after every 
meal in good weather. Honor, breathless with 
eagerness, led the way, beckoning the others 
to follow. They flocked to the seat under the 
great trumpet vine. 

“What is it?” they all cried. “More tells, 
Moriole? We haven’t heard half enough!” 


THE WAY TO COVENTRY 217 


""Sit down, girls! I’m out of breath. I 
want to tell you all — you first, Patricia, but 
all together — you are all wrong about Maria. 
Poor thing, she meant no harm. Listen!” 
and she poured out Maria’s story, the words 
tumbling over one another with eagerness ; the 
girls listening with wide-open eyes. 

""So you see,” she concluded, ""it wasn’t 
wicked, it was only silly ; very silly, of course, 
and she knows it, and is — oh, so dreadfully 
sorry and ashamed ! Pat, you can’t be angry 
with her any more ; you must forgive her, and 
take her back, don’t you see?” 

Patricia laughed. ""I’m afraid I don’t 
see ! ” she said. ""Stealing is stealing, Moriole, 
my child! No doubt she is sorry. Thieves 
are apt to be — when they are found out. 
They are also apt to trump up a pretty story 
to tell to sympathetic people. This is a very 
pretty story, my dear, but I don’t see that it 
alters the facts of the case. The ring was in 
Maria’s pocket. Et voildF^ 


218 


HONOR BRIGHT 


“You — you mean — that you do not believe 
what Maria says?” 

Honor spoke slowly, as if bewildered. 

“I mean precisely that! I don’t believe 
one solitary word!” 

Honor looked from one to another. 

“Girls! Vivette! Stephanie! You be- 
lieve it?” 

No one spoke; all looked embarrassed, ex- 
cept little Loulou, who was pirouetting about, 
paying little attention. 

“I see — ^you don’t!” 

Honor was silent for a moment, thinking. 
Then, suddenly, a flame seemed to surge up 
within her. She did not need dark hair this 
time; red hair would do to be angry with. 
She sprang to her feet. Her blue eyes flashed, 
and she clenched her hands, facing them 
all. 

“Very well!” she said. “Then — that is 
all! You have sent Maria to Coventry: I 
go with her! Good-by!” 


THE WAY TO COVENTRY 


219 


She was gone. The girls looked at one 
another with blank faces. 

‘‘Oh, Patricia!” cried Stephanie. “We 
can’t send Moriole to Coventry 1 She has just 
come back to us, and we all missed her so 
dreadfully! Do make up with Maria!” 

“Pooh !” said Patricia. “She’ll come back. 
Honor isn’t going to leave us and take up with 
Maria Patterson. I give her half an hour!” 

Honor flew to Maria’s room, her eyes blaz- 
ing, her cheeks on fire. As she entered, 
Maria looked up, a spark of hope in her eyes; 
but at sight of Honor’s face, she cowered down 
in her chair and covered her face with her 
hands, with a broken moan. 

“You couldn’t!” she said. “I knew you 
couldn’t ! I knew they wouldn’t believe you. 
Thank you just as much for trying. Honor!” 

“Hateful, hateful creatures!” Honor 
stamped her foot and clenched her hands. “I 
never want to speak to any of them again. 
Come, Maria, come out with me ! They 


220 


HONOR BRIGHT 


needn’t speak to us, and we certainly will not 
speak to them. We’ll live in Coventry to- 
gether!” And she laughed a defiant laugh. 

Maria shook her head drearily. 

"‘No! I can’t go out; and I will not keep 
you from them. Go, please, Moriole! I will 
not bring disgrace on you. Please go!” 

Honor stood her ground hotly, determined 
to carry her point; finally the school bell set- 
tled the matter by summoning all hands to 
the classroom. 

It was a wretched morning. Maria drooped 
in her corner. Honor blazed and flashed in 
hers like a Catherine wheel. She flung her 
scornful glances here and there, and all 
quailed beneath them, except Patricia, who 
only laughed. Stephanie was on the verge of 
tears and made sad work of her lessons. 

“What then ails these children?” said Ma- 
dame to Soeur Seraphine at recess. “Do they 
conspire, or are they sickening? There is a 
fever in the suburbs, Margoton tells me. Per- 


THE WAY TO COVENTRY 


221 


haps it would be well to send for the doc- 
tor?” 

‘‘Wait a little, my sister! We shall soon 
know.” Soeur Seraphine was her usual se- 
rene self. “Our little casserole bubbles furi- 
ously ; soon it will overflow, and we shall learn 
all about it. They are like that, our dear 
children! No, they are not sickening: I 
have examined tongue and pulse of all ; all are 
perfect, except this poor Maria, who is the 
root of the trouble, I am convinced, and who 
as yet can tell me nothing. To-morrow I look 
to know all.” 

That was the Sister’s way. She never 
“poked the nose,” as we said. She hardly 
ever asked a question ; she simply waited and 
things came to her. 

This time she had not long to wait. 

The day wore through somehow; a dread- 
ful day. Honor never liked to recall it. In 
the afternoon walk, she stalked ahead of the 
rest, her arm round Maria, her head thrown 


222 


HONOR BRIGHT 


back defiantly; her heart full of rage and bit- 
terness. If only Maria had a particle of spirit, 
it would be easier, she felt; but Maria had no 
thought of anything but despair, with the 
added misery of having involved Honor in 
her disgrace. She was not in the least a 
bad girl, poor Maria; only a silly, inquisitive 
one. 

‘‘Look, Maria! what a strange-looking old 
lady! Isn’t she beautiful? She is looking 
at us, so don’t stare, but just glance as you 
go by!” 

Maria did not even glance. “I don’t care !” 
she said, “and how can an old lady be beauti- 
ful, anyhow? I don’t care about anything; 
I wish I were dead!” 

said Honor, “is wicked! You are 
a goose, Maria, but there is no need of your 
being wicked, and you shan’t, either. And 
old ladies are some of the most beautiful in 
the world, when they are beautiful ! Look at 
our Sister!” 


THE WAY TO COVENTRY 


223 


Soeur Seraphine was thirty-three, to be pre- 
cise ; but fourteen takes little count of degrees 
in age. 

A wretched afternoon. A wretched eve- 
ning, Maria’s forlorn face casting a gloom 
over the pleasant reading hour, a gloom only 
accentuated by Honor’s flame of anger, which 
still burned brightly. Soeur Seraphine, read- 
ing aloud peacefully, looked benignantly over 
the top of her “Telemaque,” and felt that a 
crisis was approaching. These dear children ! 
By to-morrow all would clear itself, and they 
would be themselves once more. But for this 
poor Maria, and our Moriole, it was indeed 
desolating; nor was Stephanie less unhappy. 
A special prayer must be offered for these 
three. 

Bedtime came. The girls separated with- 
out the usual merry chirping over their lighted 
candles. Honor, after a brief but energetic 
effort to make Maria ‘‘cheer up,” gave it up 
in despair for the moment, and hurried to 


224 


HONOR BRIGHT 


bed, thereby saving five minutes of the al- 
lotted fifteen, of which half was usually spent 
in happy fluttering and twittering from room 
to room. Placing her candle on the little bed- 
side table, she drew from under her mattress 
a square leather-bound volume, and settling 
herself among the pillows, began to write hur- 
riedly. 

‘‘My young life was full of sorrows. 
Treacherous friends deserted me because I just 
tried to behave decently. My cheek grew 
pale and thin, but my spirit was undaunted. 
My tears flowed like a crystal fountain — ” 
Here Honor blinked hard and thought she did 
perhaps feel something like a tear in one eye — 
“My silken pillow was wet with them. The 
poor thing I tried to rescue was no help at all, 
but of course that made no difference, and I 
spurned the others from me with flashing eye 
and regal gesture. One of them was my 
bosom friend. I never thought she would de- 
sert me — 


THE WAY TO COVENTRY 225 


‘‘Who’s there? Maria? Come in! Any- 
body else, stay out!” 

But Stephanie was already in: Stephanie 
was flinging herself on Honor’s neck, weep- 
ing, begging for forgiveness. 

“Moriole darling! Speak to me! look at 
me! Do be friends! Won’t you, Moriole? 
I can’t bear it without you!” 

Did Honor spurn her with flashing eye and 
regal gesture ? No ! she hugged her close, and 
they cried together, and kissed and “made up” 
like the affectionate creatures they were. 

“But — but you forgive Maria?” cried 
Honor. “You’ll take her back, Stephanie? 
You can’t have me without her!” 

“I’ll take twenty Marias!” whispered Ste- 
phanie, “to get back my own, own Mor- 
iole!” 

Ting! ting! went the bell. Lights out! 
One parting hug; off flew Stephanie; back 
went the book under the mattress; out went 
the candle. Honor nestled down in bed with 


226 


HONOR BRIGHT 


a warm heart, for the first time since leaving 
the Chalet. 

“Thank you, Matthew, Mark, Luke and 
John!” she murmured. “You have blessed 
the bed that I lie on!” and she fell happily 
asleep, to dream of the Twins and Zitli. 

Never yet in all her peaceful years had 
Honor had two broken nights in succession; 
but there is a first time for everything. 

Late in this second night she was again 
waked suddenly; not by sobbing this time: 
not by any noise; all was still. What was it, 
then ? Why was she sitting up in bed, fright- 
ened? She sniffed: a strange smell was in 
her nostrils: acrid, pungent — fire? She was 
springing out of bed, when she heard some 
one enter the next room hurriedly; heard a 
smothered cry; heard the window flung vio- 
lently open; heard her own name called, low 
but urgently. 

“Honor! Honor! come!” 


THE WAY TO COVENTRY 227 


Honor flew, to find the strange odor 
pouring out of Maria’s room; to see, 
by the moonlight which flooded it, Maria 
lying apparently unconscious, and bending 
over her, dragging her from the bed — 
Patricia ! 

“Help me get her to the window!” said Pa- 
tricia briefly. “So ! Now call the Sister, and 
get my salts 1 Quick ! ” 

Again Honor flew, down the corridor, at the 
end of which a light glanced from the crack 
under Soeur Seraphine’s door. The little Sis- 
ter, kneeling at her prie-Dieu, turned as the 
door opened. Her eyes widened at sight of 
Honor’s horrified face; her delicate nostrils 
expanded as the pungent odor crept into them; 
all this Honor saw afterwards. It seemed 
hardly a breathing-space before the Sister had 
flashed past her, flashed down the corridor, 
and had Maria in her arms by the open win- 
dow, while Patricia knelt beside her with the 
salts. A pure cool breeze blew into the room. 


228 


HONOR BRIGHT 


driving out the choking vapor. A few anx- 
ious moments, a convulsive movement, a 
quiver of the eyelids: Maria opened her 
eyes, and looked feebly about her. 

‘‘Let us thank the merciful Lord and the 
blessed saints!” said Soeur Seraphine. “My 
child, behold you restored to us 1 How do you 
find yourself?” 

“Oh, dear!” said Maria. “Am I not dead? 
oh, dear!” 

At this moment she caught sight of Patri- 
cia’s pale face close beside her. She shrank 
back with a cry. 

“Why couldn’t you let me die?” she cried. 
“Don’t — don’t laugh at me, Patricia! Please 
go away, and let me die!” 

Patricia was about to speak, but Soeur 
Seraphine signed to her to be silent. 

“A little later!” she murmured. “Go 
now, my child! Thou also. Honor; return in 
ten minutes.” 

As they turned to go, a piece of paper blew 


THE WAY TO COVENTRY 229 


off the table and fell at Patricia’s feet. She 
picked it up mechanically, and saw her own 
name on it. The two girls passed into Pa- 
tricia’s room, which was on the other side of 
Maria’s. Patricia lighted her candle, and 
read, 

‘‘Patricia, it is true, what I told Honor. I 
did not mean to steal the ring. Please take 
Honor back. I will not disgrace her when 
she was so good to me. 

“Maria Patterson.” 

“Oh, Patricia!” cried Honor. “What — 
what did she do? What was that dreadful 
smell? Patricia! you are white as a sheet! 
Are you going to faint? Don’t — don’t cry, 
my dear!” 

“I am not crying!” Patricia wiped two 
large tears from her cheeks. “What did she 
do? She tried to kill herself. If it had not 
been for you, I should have been a murder- 


230 


HONOR BRIGHT 


‘‘Patricia, don’t say such dreadful things! 
And what have I to do with it?” 

“You kept me from going to sleep!” said 
Patricia curtly.” You little thing — ” Pa- 
tricia laid her hands on Honor’s shoulders, and 
held her at arm’s length a moment. “You 
little thing!” she repeated. “You have saved 
me, as well as Maria!” 

“Oh, Patricia!” faltered Honor, her own 
eyes bright with tears. “What was it? was 
it poison?” 

“Charcoal! The poor creature must have 
taken some from Margoton’s brazier. Merci- 
fully she didn’t know enough to stop up the 
keyhole between her room and mine. I smelt 
it, and then I saw a thin blue thread come 
creeping through the keyhole; and then — all 
in a minute I knew! Hark! the Sister calls 
us. Honor, I can’t talk about it, but I never 
shall forget this night!” 

Honor was almost awe-stricken as Patricia 
pressed a warm kiss on her cheek; Patricia, 


THE WAY TO COVENTRY 231 


who never kissed any one. She returned the 
caress shyly, hut tenderly, and hand in hand 
the two entered Maria’s room. 

Soeur Seraphine’s lovely face was more 
nearly stern than they had ever seen it. She 
was sitting on the bed, Maria’s hand in hers. 
She addressed the two girls gravely. 

“Here we have,” she said, “one who has 
sinned and repented. Her first sin was not 
grievous, as it appears to me; her repentance 
was deep and sincere, but it has not been ac- 
cepted — save by thee, my little Honor! Thy 
part in this affair has been all that I could 
wish. Patricia, of thee I would ask, art thou 
entirely without sin thyself?” 

“No, my Sister I” Patricia’s voice was low, 
her eyes were bent on the floor. 

“Thou art right. Pride, vain glory, envy 
— no, perhaps not that!” as Patricia made an 
involuntary movement; “hatred, malice and 
all uncharitableness. Of these thou hast been 
guilty; is it not so, my child?” 


232 


HONOR BRIGHT 


“Yes, my Sister!” 

“Dost thou repent of these thy sins? Are 
they hateful in thine eyes?” 

“Oh, yes! yes!” 

Soeur Seraphine’s face softened; her eyes 
shone with their own kind light. She said no 
word, but with a lovely gesture held out 
Maria’s hand. Patricia clasped it, and knelt 
down by the bedside. 

“Maria,” she said, in a low, stifled voice, 
“I have been wicked and hateful, and I beg 
your pardon!” 

“Oh, don’t, Patricia!” gasped Maria. 
“Oh, please don’t! I — of course it was hor- 
rid of me; of course you thought — oh, do get 
up, Patricia ! Oh, of course I forgive you, if 
you forgive me!” 

“So!” The Sister raised Patricia, and 
seated her beside her. “That is well. Now 
you are friends once more, and that part of 
this sad matter may be forgotten. For her 
second and far more grievous sin, that of at- 


THE WAY TO COVENTRY 233 


tempting to renounce the gift of life given 
her by the good God, Maria is deeply repent- 
ant; is it not so, my child?” 

‘‘Oh, yes!” murmured Maria, clasping her 
hands over her face. “I don’t see how I could 
have done it!” 

“Fitting penance will be devised for thee!” 
the Sister went on serenely. “Thou prefer- 
est to leave it to me and Madame, and it is 
well. For thee, Patricia; wouldst thou pre- 
fer to choose thine own penance, or shall we 
devise one for thee also?” 

“I think — ” Patricia spoke slowly, but 
with something of her usual assured tone: 
“I think, my Sister, that I will go to Coventry 
myself!” 

“Go to — Gov — what is that, my child? A 
city of England, is it not? We could not per- 
mit — ” 

Patricia hastened to explain. 

“Sending a person to Coventry means — not 
speaking to her, not having anything to do 


234 


HONOR BRIGHT 


with her. We — I — sent Maria to Coventry, 
and made all the other girls do it — except 
Honor! she wouldn’t! Now I will go my- 
self, for a week. I will not speak to anybody, 
and nobody shall speak to me. Will that do, 
my Sister?” 

“Oh, Patricia!” cried Honor and Maria in 
one breath. “You shall not! You must 
not!” 

But Soeur Seraphine nodded approval. 

“The idea,” she said, “appears to me ad- 
mirable!” 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE STRANGE OLD LADY 

Patricia performed her penance faithfully. 
At her request, Soeur Seraphine explained 
matters briefly to the girls next morning; so 
far, that is to say, as she considered explana- 
tion desirable. Patricia, she told them, had 
become convinced that she had been unjust to 
Maria, and had taken upon herself the pun- 
ishment which she and they had inflicted upon 
that imprudent but well-meaning young per- 
son. For the space of a week, they would 
hold no communication with Patricia, nor she 
with them: Madame approving this entirely. 
After that time, their happy relations with one 
another would be resumed, and never again, 
the Sister trusted, would their clear horizon 
be clouded in such manner. The girls were 

235 


236 


HONOR BRIGHT 


to remark that a little folly, arousing the evil 
passions of our sinful nature, had brought 
about this sad state of affairs. Let them 
pray without ceasing for truth, courage 
and kindness, since these three formed 
the tripod on which humanity must stand. 
Dismissed ! 

As the girls left the classroom, Patricia, who 
was standing at the door, shook hands with 
each of them, as if taking leave. She did not 
speak, nor did any one dare speak to her. 
Her face was grave, but the scornful look was 
gone; the insolence of her beauty was veiled, 
as it were, by a thoughtful, almost a sorrow- 
ful look. She gave Honor a lovely smile; 
Honor’s arms were open in an instant to em- 
brace her, but Patricia shook her head, and 
laid her finger on her lips. 

“I don’t see how I canF^ said Honor to her- 
self, as she passed out, “but I must!” she 
added, “and so I will!” 

This sensible resolve she communicated to 


THE STRANGE OLD LADY 237 


the other girls, as they clustered round her 
under the trumpet vine. Patricia was walk- 
ing by herself at the other end of the garden, 
pacing up and down in a sober, business-like 
way. 

“How can we?” cried one and another. 
“Maria made no difference one way or an- 
other: but Patricia — it will be like losing you 
over again, Moriole!” 

“We just plain have to!” said Honor 
stoutly. “That’s all there is about it. And 
mind you be good to Maria, girls! It’s the 
least you can do, after treating her so hor- 
ribly. Poor thing! she is really sick this 
morning, so our Sister made her stay in bed; 
but she will be down to dinner, and I say, let’s 
all try to make her forget about it.” 

All agreed, though without any special en- 
thusiasm. They were ashamed of the part 
they had played, but after all, Maria was 
Maria. 

‘"Tiens, la Moriole!” It was Jacqueline de 


238 


HONOR BRIGHT 


la Tour de Provence who spoke, in her languid, 
graceful drawl. ‘‘Why this sudden interest 
in Maria, — for thee, I mean? Thou hast 
never shown it before. She is bourgeoise to 
a degree ! She cannot belong to even the low- 
est order of noblesse 

“We are Americans!” said Honor shortly. 
“We have no noblesse. And if we had — how 
about noblesse oblige^ Jacqueline?” 

Jacqueline blushed slightly, and murmured 
something about her House; but it was noticed 
that she was moderately civil to Maria, when 
the latter, still depressed, and sniffing at inter- 
vals, appeared at dinner. 

“But, Maria,” cried Honor, dragging her 
into a corner after dinner, “you simply must 
buck up! You cant go round cringing and 
sniffing like — ^like a poodle that’s just been 
shaved ! Hold up your head ! Look them in 
the eye ! Show them that you are as good as 
they are!” 

“But I am not!” said poor Maria, who did 


THE STRANGE OLD LADY 239 


seem to be made of putty, as Patricia once 
said, and poor putty at that. 

""You are! a great deal better than some of 
them. Buck up, I tell you!” 

''BokopeF^ Soeur Seraphine, passing, 
paused with a smile of inquiry. ""Eet ees to 
me a word wholly new, la Moriole. It means 
— vat, for example?” 

Honor colored hotly, and hung her head. 

""It’s — it’s argot, my Sister!” she confessed 
meekly. ""Slang, you know, we call it. It 
means to — to collect oneself — to — to take a 
brace — oh, dear ! that’s slang too ! I’m 
afraid "buck up’ is really what it does mean, 
my Sister. Papa used to say it!” she added 
timidly. 

The little Sister glowed sympathetic. 

^'Tiens! If thy honored father used the 
expression, it is without doubt a valuable one. 
Bokope! it is to remember, that!” 

She passed on, leaving Honor struggling 
between amusement and remorse. 


240 


HONOR BRIGHT 


The days passed quickly, as days do; they 
missed Patricia woefully. Even Stephanie 
confessed to missing her, though she declared, 
pacing the Garden, arm in arm with her 
newly-recovered Moriole, that this was noth- 
ing compared with the desolation of last 
week. 

“Patricia has behaved nobly, I grant that!” 
she said. “I forgive her much, even her pride, 
which is insufferable. But to have thee back, 
my cherished one, that makes to bound the 
heart; I could better do without all than to 
lose thee, my Moriole!” 

Was Stephanie always so sentimental? 
Had she herself been so, before she went to 
the Chalet? Honor wondered; then she fell 
to wondering what they were all doing up 
there. It was four o’clock. The goats would 
be coming home soon. Perhaps Big Pierre 
was there, courting Gretli. In that case Zitli 
would be in his own nook behind the garden, 
fitting alone, looking at the mountain, think- 


THE STRANGE OLD LADY 241 


ing perhaps a little of his friend. She must 
write to them to-night. She had already writ- 
ten once, but Zitli said letters were a rare 
treat, and she loved to write them. 

‘‘Look, Honor! that old lady again who 
regards thee. My faith, but her eyes devour 
thee. One would say she was hungry, not 
so?” 

Honor looked up, to find a pair of bright 
dark eyes fixed on her with singular intentness. 
They belonged to a lady whom the girls had 
seen several times of late in the Garden; an 
old lady, richly dressed, who sometimes drove 
slowly in a victoria, sometimes, as to-day, sat 
on a garden chair under the trees. She was 
accompanied by a trim, rosy little person, who 
might be nurse, companion or courier. She 
seemed interested in all the girls, but specially 
in Honor, whose looks and motions she stud- 
ied openly and deliberately. 

To-day, after a prolonged look which yet was 
not a stare, she said a few words to her com- 


242 


HONOR BRIGHT 


panion, who stepped forward and in turn ad- 
dressed Soeur Seraphine, who was shepherd- 
ing her little flock. The Sister looked up in 
surprise; glanced toward the lady on the gar- 
den chair; then hastily adjuring the girls to 
be extremely sage and to observe well the beau- 
ties of Nature, she advanced with an air of 
respectful interest toward the old lady, who, 
with a civil nod, beckoned her to a seat be- 
side her. The nurse, companion or courier 
retired to a discreet distance. The girls, de- 
voured by curiosity, paid scant attention to 
the beauties of nature. 

‘‘Stephanie, you must not stare!” whispered 
Honor. “Look at that swan; he is pecking 
the young one as hard as he can.” 

Stephanie glanced anxiously at the swan. 
“They are savage creatures!” she said. “A 
swan once pecked my grandmother, tearing 
large portions of flesh from her bones. It 
was a frightful thing; she turned black with 
terror. Observe her dress, Moriole! It is 


THE STRANGE OLD LADY 243 


richness itself, though sombre, and in distin- 
guished taste.” 

“Your grandmother’s? Or the swan’s?” 
Honor laughed. 

“A squirrel! a squirrel!” cried little Loulou. 
“Where are the nuts, Vivette?” 

Squirrel and nuts made a brief diversion, 
but it was hard not to glance more often than 
one should at the couple on the garden chairs. 
They were talking earnestly; the Sister with 
her pretty, fluttering gestures, the other with 
an occasional wave of a delicate ringed hand, 
or an emphatic nod. Finally — oh, wonder! 
oh, thrill upon thrill! — the Sister rose 
and beckoned — to whom? Jacqueline de 
la Tour de Provence rose with dignity, 
and was gliding forward, swanlike, 
when the Sister’s voice was heard, silver 
clear. 

“Honor ! Approach, my child ! ” 

Jacqueline drew back with an air of elab- 
orate unconcern. Honor, with a deprecating 


244 


HONOR BRIGHT 


glance at her, and a round-eyed flash at Ste- 
phanie, advanced timidly. 

‘‘Honor, my little one,” the Sister’s voice 
trembled; “that I present thee to Madame — ” 

“Mrs. Damian!” The lady spoke in an 
odd, abrupt tone. “How do you do, child? 
Your grandfather Bright was my first cousin; 
you are therefore my second cousin once re- 
moved. Sit down! If you open your eyes 
too wide, they might drop out. I asked you 
how you did!” 

Honor blinked and sat down hastily, trem- 
bling and amazed. 

“I am very well, I thank you, madame!” 
she answered. “I trust your distinguished 
health is also good.” 

“My distinguished health is as good as can 
be expected, I thank you!” with an amused 
twinkle. “Your name is Honor? So is 
mine ! There is always an Honor in the fam- 
ily. You never heard your father speak of 
me, I suppose? No! how should you? I 


THE STRANGE OLD LADY 245 


haven’t seen him for twenty years. He was a 
nice boy then. Well! you wonder what sky 
I have dropped from, eh? I heard of your 
parents’ death a year or more ago; I was in 
Russia at the time. I am a traveler, child; 
I have been traveling for many years. I was 
in Russia, and since then I have been in the 
East. I have always meant to look you up; 
I wrote your guardian, Mr. Stanford, that I 
would. You have never seen Mr. Stanford?” 

Honor shook her head. ‘‘He writes to Ma- 
dame,” she said. “Twice a year he writes, 
to make inquiry for me, and to send money; 
he comes never.” 

“Busy man! You’ll see him — ” Mrs. 
Damian spoke in short, abrupt sentences, each 
one punctuated with a nod. The last sentence 
remained unfinished, and she nodded twice. 

“Folly!” she spoke over her shoulder, and 
the rosy person approached. “This is the 
little cousin! Honor, this is Miss Folly, who 
keeps me alive, A ridiculous fuss she makes 


246 


HONOR BRIGHT 


about it, too. What now, Folly? Why do 
you look at me?” 

‘‘It’s time to come home, Mrs. Damian!” 
Miss Folly spoke in a cheerful, cordial voice 
which struck Honor’s ear like music. “Shall 
I call the carriage?” 

“Do so! Honor, your teacher gives you 
permission to take supper with me at the hotel 
this evening. Will you come?” 

Honor faltered her thanks ; with great pleas- 
ure would she do herself the honor — 

“That’s good! Miss Folly will come for 
you at a quarter before six. Au revoir^ 
child!” 

She nodded dismissal. Honor’s head was 
spinning; her heart was beating fast; but she 
made her best courtesy, and murmuring, 
revoir, madame! Au plaisir, mademoiselle 
she turned and scurried away toward the group 
of girls, who, at the further end of the Gar- 
dens, were turning eager heads in her direc- 
tion. On the way, she caught sight of Pa- 


THE STRANGE OLD LADY 247 


tricia, taking her solitary walk in a shady by- 
path, and stopped short, her heart beating 
louder than ever. She could not — how could 
she pass Patricia without a word? 

A squirrel was hopping along the path, ex- 
pectant of nuts. 

‘‘Squirrel!” cried Honor. The squirrel 
stopped ; Patricia turned, saw her, and stopped 
too. “Give my love to Patricia!” Honor 
addressed Master Frisky, breathlessly. “Tell 
her we miss her dreadfully! And — squirrel 
— tell her I am going to supper at the hotel 
with my grandfather’s cousin, Mrs. Da- 
mian, who has been in Russia. Tell her 
it’s that beautiful old lady we saw the 
other day. That’s all!” and kissing her 
hand — but not to the squirrel — Honor ran 
on. 

The girls surged round her like a wave; 
questions flew like spray. What? Who? 
Why ? How ? She was explaining as well as 
she could, when Miss Folly appeared, very 


248 


HONOR BRIGHT 


bright-eyed, a little out of breath from walk- 
ing quickly. 

“Excuse me!” she said with a smile, as the 
girls drew back in confusion. “Miss Honor, 
Mrs. Damian asks what you like best to eat.” 

Honor fairly gasped. “Oh! oh, mademoi- 
selle, it is of no import! Anything that Ma- 
dame — ” 

Miss Folly dismissed the remark with a ges- 
ture. “What do you like best ?” she repeated. 
“Mrs. Damian wishes to know.” 

“Oh! oh, dear! ice-cream!” faltered Honor. 

Miss Folly smiled again. “That, natur- 
ally! but before ice-cream?” 

“Oh! Oh, must I? Broiled chicken! I 
thank madame most respectuously — ” 

Miss Folly nodded cheerfully, and de- 
parted. Nine pairs of eyes, opened to their 
roundest extent, gazed at one another. Then 
Honor held out her arm, solemnly. 

“Pinch me, Stephanie!” she said. “Quite 
hard, please — ow! that will do. Because if 


THE STRANGE OLD LADY 249 


I am not asleep and dreaming, then we are all 
in a fairy story, that’s all.” 

Still more fairy-like it seemed when at a 
quarter before six o’clock, punctually. Miss 
Folly appeared, like a matter-of-fact fairy god- 
mother, and whisked Honor off in the vic- 
toria with the long-tailed black horses, the very 
carriage in which — helas! poor pretty Maman 
and kind Papa used to take her on those long 
drives. There had been a solemn consulta- 
tion over Honor’s dress for the occasion. She 
felt in her heart that black velvet, with a long 
train and point lace flounces, was the fitting 
attire. Diamonds, of course; her superb dark 
tresses woven into a stately coronal (she had 
just discovered ‘"coronal,” and thought it a 
beautiful word) with a single ostrich plume, 
snowy white, curling above it. These decora- 
tions not being at hand, she turned her mind 
with a sigh to the actual choice, the dark blue 
cashmere with crochet buttons, or the white 


250 


HONOR BRIGHT 


embroidered muslin, Maman’s last gift, now 
let down to its fullest extent; a trifle short in 
the sleeves, but still ‘‘all that there was of most 
gracious!” Soeur Seraphine declared. Ma- 
dame was rather in favor of the cashmere; it 
was more composed, she said; more sedate, 
and wholly suitable. Stephanie, who assisted 
at the conference, affectionately pressed upon 
Honor her own best dress, the red silk with 
black velvet ribbon. Soeur Seraphine sup- 
pressed a shudder, and promptly decided on 
the white, for which Honor thanked her with 
an eloquent glance. It was darling of Ste- 
phanie, but — and, besides, Maman had told 
her never to wear red or pink; “Unless, when 
you are forty, my darling, a deep red velvet; 
your hair will be da^'ker by then, and it will 
suit your tint.” 

Honor did not feel as if she would ever be 
forty; why not four hundred at once? But 
she knew that this infliction of her hair could 
be made better or worse by her choice of col- 


THE STRANGE OLD LADY 251 


ors. She gladly put on the white dress, and 
was pondering the question of a sash, when 
she heard a light step in the corridor; then a 
soft rustle as of silk; a touch on the handle 
of the door, and the step retreating again. 
She flew to the door and opened it, to see the 
last flutter of a skirt disappearing, and hang- 
ing on the doorhandle — Patricia’s beautiful 
new sash of pale-green brocaded ribbon, with 
the shoulder-knots to match. 

‘‘Oh, my Sister, see!” cried Honor, the 
tears springing to her eyes. “See what Pa- 
tricia has done! her very best sash! Oh, 
mayn’t I just run and give her a hug for 
thanks?” 

“On no account!” The Sister’s face was 
shining with pleasure. “Our dear Patricia is 
making her salvation with assured steps; let 
no one cause her to stumble ! Be tranquil, my 
child, that I arrange for thee this charming 
garniture! It completes to perfection a cos- 
tume wholly jeune filleF^ 


252 


HONOR BRIGHT 


In the little, richly gilt private salon of the 
hotel, Mrs. Damian received Honor with ab- 
rupt cordiality. She wore the costume of 
Honor’s dreams, minus the flounces and the 
ostrich plume. Her dark eyes were as bright 
as her diamonds. Honor thought, and the rich 
velvet set off her ivory skin and delicate high- 
bred features to perfection. As to the point 
lace, it was gathered in graceful folds at her 
throat, and crowned her snowy hair in a quaint 
and charming cap. Altogether, Honor 
thought her one of the most beautiful things 
she had ever seen. Admiration was evidently 
no new thing to Mrs. Damian, but it as evi- 
dently gave her pleasure; she smiled as Honor 
made her pretty reverence, and held out her 
fragile hand. 

‘‘You are prompt!” she said. “That is 
good! You have been taught not to waste 
other people’s time. There is not time 
enough in the world to go round, and yet — 
ring the bell, will you. Folly? — people waste 


THE STRANGE OLD LADY 253 


it — or steal it — as if it were water. Do you 
understand?” 

Honor started at the sudden question, which 
was like the swoop of a hawk. 

‘‘Not — not altogether, madame!” she fal- 
tered. “To waste time; we are taught that 
that is at once foolish and sinful; to steal — 
how then?” 

“Listen ! If you waste your own time, that 
is your own affair. If you had been half or 
even a quarter of an hour late, you would have 
wasted my time. It does not belong to you; 
therefore you steal it! Do you see?” 

“I see, madame!” Honor glanced thank- 
fully at the little gilt clock on the mantel, 
which had struck six as she entered the room. 
Miss Folly had kept her waiting in the ante- 
room five minutes before ushering her in; she 
wondered why. Was that — 

“To come too early,” Mrs. Damian contin- 
ued, with her abrupt nod, “is no better. In 
that case also it is my time you take. If I had 


254 


HONOR BRIGHT 


wanted you at half-past five, I should have 
said so. Do you see?” 

She swooped again. 

‘‘Yes, madame!” murmured Honor, this 
time with a grateful glance at Miss Folly, who 
gave her an enigmatic smile and poked the 
fire. 

“I allowed five minutes for arrival and re- 
ception; it is now — ah! on the moment, here 
comes supper!” 

Such a wonderful supper ! The dishes 
were white and gold, like ihe salon; the 
broiled chicken, the fried potatoes, the crisp 
rolls, all showed various tints of brownish 
gold. Mrs. Damian watched with keen eyes 
as Honor ate, with the wholesome appetite 
of vigorous girlhood, yet with the delicate 
nicety which was part of the education at Pen- 
sion Madeleine. She herself supped on a cup 
of soup and a roll; but it was a gold cup, and 
the soup looked very good. She talked 
easily, telling of her recent travels; now and 


THE STRANGE OLD LADY 255 


then asking a question in her odd, pouncing 
way, but mostly, it seemed, content to watch 
the child and enjoy her enjoyment. 

‘‘I wonder how you would like a Japanese 
dinner. Honor! I was in Japan last winter, 
and I dined several times with a friend of mine. 
We sat on mats on the floor — but yes!” as 
Honor raised wide eyes of astonishment — 
“there is nothing else to sit on in my friend’s 
house; she does not care for European cus- 
toms. My table was like your doll’s table, 
about ten inches high. I wore Japanese dress, 
for I was expected to carry food away — but 
yes! in my sleeves. Eat your supper, child, 
and don’t open your eyes too wide; as I said 
before, they might drop out. The sleeves are 
very wide — a kimono, in short — and have 
large pockets in them, lined with something 
easily cleaned; I forget its name. The last 
time I took away — let me see! — a fried fish, 
a crab, some rice-balls, a quantity of dried 
ginger and some ripe lychee nuts. Catch 


256 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Miss Honor’s eyes, Folly; they are dropping 
out!” 

Mrs. Damian laughed, the prettiest little 
dry laugh. 

“Many countries, many customs!” she con- 
tinued. “You will find that out, when you 
begin to move about, child. If I had not 
taken away these things, I should have af- 
fronted my hostess by appearing not to like 
her delicacies. You see? Some ice-cream in 
your pocket?” as the waiter handed the cafe 
mousse a second time. “Your sleeves are too 
small! Alphonse, bring more of these little 
cakes, and a box ; mademoiselle will take some 
to her companions.” 

“Oh, madame, you are too kind!” Honor 
had just been wishing that Stephanie and Vi- 
vette could see these marvelous little cakes, 
with the pink and green frosting. “You — 
you comble me!” 

Honor meant “overwhelm”; when she for- 
got an English word, she Anglicized the 


THE STRANGE OLD LADY 257 


French one; it was quite simple, when one 
understood. Mrs. Damian appeared to un- 
derstand, for she repeated ‘‘comble” with her 
rustling laugh. 

‘‘I was a schoolgirl myself before the Flood! 
Would your teacher let the girls have some ice- 
cream? Alphonse, a mold of this — two 
quarts — in the carriage at eight o’clock, with 
the cakes. My compliments to — what’s her 
name? Madame Madeleine, and I trust she 
will permit a little treat, before bed-time. So 1 
Now, Honor, come and sit beside me on this 
sofa. I have done all the talking hitherto; 
now I must rest, and you shall talk.” 

Honor was stricken dumb : she gazed at her 
hostess, mute and round-eyed. 

‘‘Talk!” said Mrs. Damian sharply. “You 
are not deaf? Nor dumb? Very well!” 
She settled herself among a pile of satin cush- 
ions. 

“Pardon, madame!” faltered Honor. “Of 
what shall I talk? I — I know so little — ” 


HONOR BRIGHT 


2£8 

“Talk of what interests you! Talk to 
Miss Folly; I shall take forty winks. Tell 
her what you want to do when you leave 
school!” 

“I shall like to hear that!” Miss Folly 
spoke in her pleasant, cordial voice. “I used 
to make all kinds of plans when I was at school. 
For some time, I meant to be a circus rider, 
but I decided to be a lion-tamer instead. 
What is your ambition. Miss Honor?” 

‘T wish to be a sennerin of the Alps!” 

Singular it is, that so often a strange hand 
is needed to turn the key of a heart! Not to 
Madame or Soeur Seraphine, the friends of all 
her child-life; not to Stephanie or Vivette, her 
friends and intimates; not — no, not even to 
the mountain friends themselves, toward whom 
her heart was constantly yearning, could 
Honor have opened the door of her longing 
hope; but here was a bright-eyed stranger, who 
with a glance, a few kindly questions, plucked 
out the heart of her mystery. Out it came. 


THE STRANGE OLD LADY 259 


pouring in a torrent all the swifter for the 
weeks of silence. 

^‘And — and I am strong, you see; and there 
is no one in all the world who needs me — but 
no one ! and I love it so ; and — and when Atli 
and Gretli are married, Zitli will be all alone, 
and he is lame, and I would be his sister, and 
keep house and cook while he takes care of the 
stock; I can make cheese already, and pan- 
cakes — and — ” 

‘‘Good gracious!” 

Mrs. Damian was sitting bolt upright amid 
her cushions. Honor started violently. Mrs. 
Damian spoke again quickly, but now in her 
usual kind, abrupt tone. 

“Honor, child, it is eight o’clock, and the 
carriage will be coming. Goodnight, little 
creature I You will come again soon ; tell Ma- 
dame What’s-her — oh ! Madeleine — that I will 
do myself the honor of calling on her to-mor- 
row. Miss Folly will see you home; good- 
night, my dear!” 


\ 


260 


HONOR BRIGHT 


And when Honor, bewildered, had stam- 
mered her thanks and adieux and been whisked 
away by Miss Folly, Mrs. Damian, still sitting 
bolt upright, repeated several times with em- 
phasis, ‘‘Good gracious ! ” Then after a pause 
she added: “It’s high time I came! Lord 
forgive me for staying away so long!” 


CHAPTER XV 


THE BOMBSHELL 

Calm before storm! In after days, Honor 
often looked back to that week that followed 
her first interview with Mrs. Damian. It was 
a peaceful week, memorable — it seemed then 
— only by the return of Patricia from Coven- 
try; a softened, chastened Patricia, who had 
found, she declared, the remedy for most of the 
ills of life. 

‘‘Silence and solitude I Nothing like them, 
my dear. I shall be a Trappist nun as soon 
as I am old enough!” 

Madame Madeleine and Soeur Seraphine 
went to return Mrs. Damian’s call; went again, 
by special invitation, to tea; came back look- 
ing very grave. After the second visit they 

showed — it was recalled later — peculiar ten- 
261 


262 


HONOR BRIGHT 


derness toward Honor. Always kindness it- 
self, it seemed as if they could not now do 
enough for her. A pat on her shoulder, a re- 
constructive touch on her hair-ribbon, an anx- 
ious eye on her appetite. Honor was deeply 
touched, but was also conscience-stricken. 
They did not dream, these dear ladies ! 
Ought she to tell them, that her heart was no 
longer in the school? That all day long she 
was thinking of her mountains, and of her 
mountain friends? Was she false-hearted, 
ungrateful, wicked? 

Then, one day, the bombshell exploded. 
Mrs. Damian had come, it appeared, with au- 
thority from Honor’s guardian, the mysterious 
Mr. Stanford, to take her away, if she judged 
it wise, to take her to America, to — virtually 
— to adopt her. Not only did Mrs. Damian 
think it wise, but Madame Madeleine and 
Soeur Seraphine agreed with her. With 
tears in her eyes, the little Sister tried to 
explain. 


THE BOMBSHELL 


263 


‘‘Eet ees for zy well-to-be, my all-cherished 
one ! Zy own contree — zy own pe-ople to zee 
— zou understandest?” 

But Honor did not, could not understand. 
She could only cling round the Sister’s neck, 
weeping bitterly, begging, with choking sobs, 
not to be sent away. 

‘‘It isn’t my own country!” she sobbed. 
“They aren’t my own people; I don’t know 
anything about them, and I don’t want to. 
My country is here, where I have always lived. 
I shall die if you send me away I And I won’t 
— I won’t be a burden I” cried the child. “I’ll 
work, my Sister! I can make b-b-butter and 
cheese; I can knit and spin and sew. Don’t 
— don’t send me away! And when I grow 
up, I want — I want to be a sennerin, my Sis- 
ter; and then I can make — all kinds of 
things — ” 

It was a bitter hour. The little Sister’s ten- 
der heart was torn, as she strove to quiet the 
distracted child. Finally, no way remained 


264 


HONOR BRIGHT 


but the quiet, direct command which was never 
questioned. 

‘‘Go to thy room, my child! There pray 
for strength and guidance, and remain till thou 
hast composed thyself!” 

Meantime the class-room simmered like a 
covered pipkin. It was History Hour, and 
M. Arnoult was on the estrade, blue-eyed and 
benign. He noticed Honor’s absence, and was 
distressed at hearing that she was indisposed. 
For the rest, he noticed little, the dear gentle- 
man. Notes circulated under his very nose, 
that patrician feature of which he was gently 
proud; notes conveying varied information. 
Mrs. Damian was Honor’s grandmother in dis- 
guise; her great-aunt; a friend only of her 
family; a stranger who saw and loved her from 
afar. (This was Stephanie’s version, natur- 
ally.) She was Americaine, enormously rich, 
very aristocratic, all that there was of most 
chic. She would adopt La Moriole; would 
make her her heir; would cause her to be en- 


THE BOMBSHELL 


265 


veloped in bank-notes as it were a cloak. 

On the contrary, a life of stern austerity 
awaited our unfortunate comrade. To attend 
the failing hours of a person undoubtedly 
“born” (i.e., well-bred), but of an age tran- 
scending that of the everlasting hills ; was that, 
Jacqueline asked, a smiling prospect? 

“And what relation, mesdemoiselles, was 
the elder of these two to the younger?” asked 
Professor Amoult in his calm, sonorous voice. 

“Great-aunt!” promptly answered Stepha- 
nie. 

“Grandmother!” cried Vivette. 

“How then? Behold what would be of sin- 
gularity indeed ! My young ladies are appar- 
ently not aware that I am speaking of King 
Louis XI and the Duke of Burgundy, sur- 
named Charles the Bold. They were cousins, 
but in what degree? Ah! at the good hour, 
behold Mademoiselle Honor!” 

Here was Honor indeed, very pale, and with 
dark circles round her eyes, but quiet and com- 


266 


HONOR BRIGHT 


posed. She could not fail her dear old Pro- 
fessor. She was the only one who really loved 
history, and he knew it. Amid suppressed 
titters, she straightened out the relationship 
between the two princes, related briefly but 
clearly the principal events of Louis’ reign, and 
wound up with the comment of Philippe de 
Comines (with which she wholly disagreed) — 
‘‘in fine, for a prince, not so bad!” 

The Professor’s face, which before her en- 
trance had exhibited a network of puzzled and 
exasperated wrinkles, relaxed into its usual 
calm benignity. 

“Behold a recital of the highest order!” he 
declared. “I take heartfelt pleasure in mark- 
ing it A.” 

Honor thanked him in what she tried to 
make a cheerful tone. It was not easy, when 
her heart was beating the refrain: “It is the 
last time; the last, last time!” 

As a matter of fact, this was not the last his- 
tory lesson. After much agitated thought, 


THE BOMBSHELL 


267 


Madame and Soeur Seraphine had written a 
joint note to Mrs. Damian, beseeching that, if 
it were possible, their beloved pupil might re- 
main long enough to take part in the closing 
exercises of the school. It was now the first 
of June. Two little weeks, and Honor could 
not only finish her course for the year, but 
could take part in those exercises of which she 
could hardly fail to be the brightest ornament. 
If Mrs. Damian would in her graciousness per- 
mit this delay— 

‘‘Of course! of course!” said Mrs. Damian, 
tossing the note to Miss Folly. “Poor good 
souls, they think me an ogress, naturally, if 
not a cannibal. Tell ’em — no! give me my 
writing things! here! Take this note over 
when you take the box; and see what you can 
do. Folly, will you? The child couldn’t bear 
to see me just now, and I certainly cannot cope 
with tantrums; but see what you can do! 
We’ll go over to Montreux, and get that lace 
I wanted — I know now why I didn’t get it 


268 


HONOR BRIGHT 


when I was there — and leave ’em to simmer 
down for a week. We’ll be back in time for 
the close, tell ’em ! Take plenty of bonbons,” 
she added; ‘‘and hand over the Russian dic- 
tionary before you go !” 

The Box which Miss Folly was to take over 
was a large one, stamped with the magic words. 
Bon Marche,^' Being opened, it dis- 
played various wonderful things; frocks as 
simple and exquisite as those Maman used to 
bring; sashes, ribbons, — all the dainty frou- 
frou which a month before would have filled 
Honor’s heart with rapture. Now she 
watched listlessly, as Miss Folly laid them out 
on the bed. They were very pretty, she said ; 
Madame was all that was most kind and gen- 
erous. Yes, the green muslin was altogether 
charming. 

“It is the shade of the sash you wore the 
other night,” said Miss Folly. “Mrs. Da- 
mian liked it, and bade me match it as nearly 
as might be.” 


THE BOMBSHELL 


269 


‘"She is very kind!” repeated Honor me- 
chanically. 

Miss Folly looked at her, and dropped the 
green muslin. 

“Yes!” she said. “She is very kind, and 
very much interested in you. You will be 
fond of her when you come to know her. She 
likes to make young people happy.” 

Honor looked up, a faint gleam in her heavy 
eyes. 

“Would she — mademoiselle — would she 
like to make me happy — but really happy? 
Then — ” her voice shook so that she could 
hardly bring out the words — “then ask if she 
will leave me here, in my home. I shall die, 
do you see, if she takes me away, and that will 
only be troublesome to her. A funeral, that 
is very expensive, and much trouble besides.” 

“Nonsense!” Miss Folly sat down delib- 
erately on the foot of the bed, and folding her 
hands, fixed her bright, sharp blue eyes full 
on Honor. “You are talking nonsense, my 


270 


HONOR BRIGHT 


dear,” she repeated, "‘and selfish nonsense at 
that.” 

“Selfish?” repeated Honor. “I — I only 
ask to be left in my home, mademoiselle. 
Here, I give no trouble to any one; grown a 
woman, I go to my Alps. You will — ” 

“Stuff — and — nonsense! You cannot go 
to your Alps. You will see, by and by, why it 
is impossible ; now, others must decide for you. 
But, Honor (I’ll drop the "Miss,’ if you don’t 
mind!), I don’t want to talk about that now; 
I am not the person to decide for you. I want 
to show you the other side, about which you 
seem to take no thought at all.” 

“The other side?” repeated Honor vaguely. 

“Mrs. Damian’s side. You have not 
thought of that at all, eh? Let me show it 
to you. Mrs. Damian is an old woman, as 
you see. More than half of her long life has 
been spent in foreign travel. Professor Da- 
mian, her husband, was a famous traveler and 
scientist, and she went with him everywhere. 


THE BOMBSHELL 


271 


all over Europe and Asia, into Africa even. 
She has seen many wonderful places, many 
interesting people. Wherever she went, she 
was welcomed, admired, feted; first as a beau- 
tiful and brilliant woman, later as a wise and 
witty one. Now, she is old; most of her 
friends are dead; her health begins to fail; she 
must give up the life she loves, and take up 
that of an old woman and — I fear — an invalid. 
This is bitter to her; the days before her look 
very dark. Honor, you can brighten those 
days, if you will.” 

‘T, mademoiselle?” 

‘‘You! You are young, and of her own 
blood, bearing her own name. She is inter- 
ested in you, more interested than she has been 
in anything since she decided to go back to 
America — to die, as she says. You can — 
when you have pulled yourself together — 
make the world a brighter place for her. How 
old are you?” 

“Fourteen.” Honor’s eyes were very wide. 


272 


HONOR BRIGHT 


as she kept them fixed on those keen blue ones. 

‘‘H’m! I was twelve when my father died 
and my mother took to her bed. I brought 
up — under God, and with my uncle’s help — 
my five brothers and sisters, and took care of 
my mother besides. You are old enough to 
think about something beside your own pleas- 
ure. That’s all!” said Miss Folly, rising. 
“Think it over! Good-by!” 

With a friendly nod, she was turning to go, 
but Honor caught her arm. 

“Mademoiselle! one moment! I will — I 
will go!” 

“Good!” Miss Folly paused, her hand on 
the door. “But — understand ! It must be a 
cheerful going. Honor. There must be no 
tears nor tantrums!” 

“Tan-trom? What is that? As of a trum- 
pet — tan-ta-ra? But assuredly not, made- 
moiselle! But — yes, I will be cheerful, be- 
lieve me!” 

When Honor said “Believe me!” it meant 


THE BOMBSHELL 


273 


something. Miss Folly saw this, and held out 
her hand. 

“Good child,” she said, rather gruffly. 
“We shall be friends, you and I. Good-by, 
my dear!” 

“My brow was marble, my heart was ice!” 
wrote Honor in her book. “I locked my secret 
in its frozen depths, and turned on the world 
a smiling face. Courage, cold heart! Soon 
Death will come to set thee free; till then, you 
must beat for the happiness of others, and 
wear a gay smile while in your frozen 
depths — ” 

Here Honor paused, perceiving that she had 
written “frozen depths” twice. While she 
was hesitating between “icy caverns” and 
“marble tomb” — only she had said both “ice” 
and “marble” before — the supper bell rang, 
and she went down and made an excel- 
lent meal on sweet omelette and ginger pre- 


serves. 


274 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Bureau Drawer Week! An uneasy feeling 
pervaded the Pension Madeleine. Girls lin- 
gered in their rooms till the last possible mo- 
ment before meals, flying downstairs on the 
last stroke of the bell, almost late — but not 
quite, for that meant no dessert. After class, 
after recess, there were hurried flights upstairs, 
for a peep, a touch, a straightening here or 
there; it was an anxious time. At any mo- 
ment, whenever it pleased them, Madame or 
Soeur Seraphine might inspect the bureau in 
any room. The Prix de Proprete, the prize 
for neatness, a much coveted work-box of blue 
morocco, with silver fittings, awaited the pupil 
whose drawers showed on several occasions a 
neatness and order such as, Soeur Seraphine 
said, befitted the surroundings of a young girl 
well brought up. 

Honor sighed. Tidiness was not her strong 
point. She admired it, but found it difficult 
to attain. She was usually in a hurry, and 
her things had a fatal way of catching on 


THE BOMBSHELL 


275 


knobs and hooks. Suppose that (as actually 
happened several times) she straightened her 
top-drawer to admiration: collars in their box, 
handkerchiefs in their case, ribbons folded 
neatly. The very first time thereafter that 
she came to get a handkerchief, her cuff -button 
would catch — say, in the fringe of her blue 
scarf. With her quick, bird-like motion, out 
came the scarf, dragging after it ribbons, belts, 
gloves; pell mell went all in a heap on the 
floor. It was supper time — or class time, or 
bed-time ; back went everything pell mell, into 
the drawer, and off flew La Moriole, with never 
another thought. Accordingly, her top 
drawer was apt to resemble rather the nest of 
a field-mouse, said Soeur Seraphine severely, 
than the drawer of a pupil of the Pension 
Madeleine. Honor was truly sorry. She 
would try; she did try, whenever she could 
bring her mind to such things as bureau 
drawers. But with the History Prize to be 
really studied for — not so much for its own 


276 


HONOR BRIGHT 


sake as to please the dear Professor, and for 
love of the study itself — and with her other 
lessons, and the visits to Mrs. Damian and the 
daily practicing for the Race — how could she 
remember her top drawer? And even if she 
should have the most perfect drawer in the 
world, it would be too mean to take the prize 
away from poor old Maria, when it was the 
only prize she could ever get. 

There had been some doubt in the minds 
of the Ladies whether Honor ought to be al- 
lowed to run in the race for the golden apples. 
It would break her heart not to do so, but was 
her ankle strong enough? The doctor was 
anxiously consulted. After a thorough exam- 
ination, he decided that she might run if two 
weeks of daily practice produced no ill effect. 
The ankle was upon probation. Every day 
Honor ran so many times along the allee; 
every evening the probationary member was 
rubbed and kneaded, to the accompaniment of 
a running fire of questions. 


THE BOMBSHELL 


277 


“Here, my child, there is no pain? 
You are positive? How when I press 
on this spot?” etc., etc. But there never 
was any pain, and with every practice run. 
Honor declared she felt stronger and 
stronger. 

Bureau Drawer Week drew toward its fate- 
ful close, and hearts beat high with hope or 
low with discouragement; all but Honor’s, 
which found it impossible to be deeply inter- 
ested. One day she and Patricia were in Ste- 
phanie’s room, discussing the matter — in 
whispers, for it was “quiet time.” Stephanie 
confessed that she “perished with desire” for 
the prize. It was so charming: hush! she had 
tried on the thimble, and it fitted her to a 
marvel. “And Maria has had it two years 
running I What can she do with three work- 
boxes?” 

“It isn’t the box, it’s the getting it!” said 
Honor. “I wish there were two prizes, Ste- 
phanie. Of course I want you to have one, 


278 


HONOR BRIGHT 


and your drawer is lovely; but it means so 
much to Maria, and — and she is so forlorn, 
poor thing!” 

‘‘She is a poor-spirited granny,” said Pa- 
tricia, “but you are right, Moriole, and I hope 
she will get it. You can get the arithmetic 
prize, Stephanie!” she added wickedly. 
“Hark! what’s that? Some one in your 
room, Honor!” 

Stephanie’s room, as we know, was next to 
Honor’s. The three girls listened intently. 
They heard a light step, then a soft sliding 
sound with a squeak at the end. 

“Some one is opening my top-drawer!” 
whispered Honor. “There is no mistaking 
that squeak. Is it Madame, do you suppose, 
or our Sister?” 

“Easy enough to find out!” Patricia bent 
quietly forward. 

“Patricia! You are not going to look 
through the keyhole?” 

“And why not? It’s Stephanie’s keyhole, 


THE BOMBSHELL 


279 


I believe! If she doesn’t mind — Well! did 
— you — ever?” 

She gazed a moment; then silently beck- 
oned to Honor. 

Honor was a human child of fourteen; if 
the keyhole was Stephanie’s, the bureau in 
the room beyond was her own. She sank on 
her knees, and applied her eye to the keyhole. 

In front of the bureau stood — Maria Pat- 
terson ! She had pulled the drawer out to its 
fullest extent, and was contemplating its dis- 
order, which certainly was extreme. Honor 
had recently been hunting for her purse, with 
disastrous results. A breathless moment 
passed ; Honor’s heart was beating fast. 
Could it — no, it could not be possible ! 
Maria was not a thief. But what was she 
about? 

Swiftly, noiselessly, Maria’s hands moved 
here and there. She was taking everything 
out, laying everything on the bed. Now — 
what was that in her hand? Her own silk 


280 


HONOR BRIGHT 


duster, one of her prized possessions. She 
wiped the drawer out carefully, prodding the 
corners with a hairpin wrapped in a fold of 
the silk. She examined the duster anxiously, 
evidently seeking a speck of dust; finding 
none, she began to lay the various articles back 
methodically, arranging them in piles with ex- 
quisite precision. Her plain face was illumi- 
nated with a look which made it almost lovely. 

The tears were rolling down Honor’s cheeks. 
Silently, she beckoned to Patricia, and then in 
turn to Stephanie. They looked and drew 
back. Patricia’s eyes were very bright, one 
might almost have thought with tears, only of 
course she never cried ; Stephanie’s were large 
and round. She opened her lips to speak, but 
Honor made her an imperious sign to be quiet. 
Still as mice they listened; heard the squeak 
of the closing drawer; heard a contented sniff 
— poor Maria always sniffed, whatever she 
did — heard the door shut, the quiet footstep 
retreat along the corridor. 


THE BOMBSHELL 


281 


For a moment the three girls stood looking 
at one another. Then, before the others 
could speak, Honor flung open the door be- 
tween the two rooms; flashed bird-like to the 
bureau; pulled open the drawer; scattered the 
contents right and left, “as if she were making 
a pudding!” said Stephanie afterward; flashed 
back again, and closing the door noiselessly, 
faced her companions, breathless, but with a 
shining face. 

“Hush!” she whispered. “I thought I 
heard our Sister’s door open. Listen! Yes, 
she comes. I was only just in time.” 

Again they listened; again heard a quiet 
footstep enter Honor’s room; again heard 
the squeak of the top drawer. Silence, and 
then a gentle sigh, a murmured, “Alas! 
what to do with this dear child?” Then 
once more the sounds of closing and de- 
parture. 

“Moriole ! ” gasped Stephanie. “You must 
let me speak, or I shall burst! Why — why 


282 


HONOR BRIGHT 


have you done this? Have your senses left 
you?” 

Honor stared. ‘1 thought I heard her 
door open ; I was right, you see. I had to get 
it done before she came.” 

‘‘Done! for example! Get it i^ndone, you 
mean! It was done, and perfectly done, by 
this poor Maria. For friendship she did it; 
I find that beautiful, I. You destroy her 
work, restore the confusion as of a rat’s nest — 
finally, will you tell me why?^’ 

“Stephanie,” Honor spoke gently, “it was 
my drawer, not Maria’s. I couldn’t let the 
Sister think I had put it in that beautiful or- 
der. I hadn’t, you see.” 

“Quite right!” said Patricia shortly. “Of 
course you couldn’t, you little thing — being 
the little thing you are!” 

“You do see, don’t you, Stephanie dear?” 
continued Honor anxiously. “I couldn’t take 
the credit that didn’t belong to me: and if I 
had waited to explain afterward, I might have 


THE BOMBSHELL 


283 


got Maria into trouble, when she had done this 
lovely thing to help me, as she thought.” 

"‘My faith, I do not see at all!” Stephanie 
spoke doggedly. “Your drawer was at four 
pins” (d quatre epingles; as we should say “in 
apple-pie order”) “when our Sister inspected 
it. What more is required? I think you are 
all mad together, you Americans and English. 
And now Maria will get the prize!” 

“I sincerely hope she will!” said Honor. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE APPLES OFATALANTA 

The day of the Race dawned clear and 
bright; as perfect a day as heart could desire. 
Long before the hour the guests began to ar- 
rive; fathers, mothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, 
all in their best, all with shining faces of ex- 
pectation. The Fete d'Atalante was Prize 
Day, Class Day, Commencement, all in one, 
at Pension Madeleine. The garden was in 
order; in saying that, one says a great deal. 
For a week past Margoton had been at work 
with rake, broom, trowel and shears; for a 
week the girls, in every spare moment, had 
diligently weeded the brick alleys, snipped off 
faded leaves and blossoms, tied up vines, etc., 
etc. The result was a perfection altogether 
dazzling, said Madame, making her final 

284 


THE APPLES OF ATALANTA 285 


round of inspection. Let one but observe 
these bricks! They shone as if — but as if 
each one had been waxed. 

^'ParbleuT said Margoton. ‘The reason 
of that, my faith? It is that they have been 
waxed, saving the honor of Madame.” 

The strip of lawn on either side of the broad 
alley was covered with benches, which filled 
rapidly as the hour approached. Here was 
Stephanie’s family, her stout, comfortable fa- 
ther, with frock coat, and double chin; her 
thin, anxious little mother, whose bead-like 
eyes were already measuring the paces that 
must be run, and comparing her child’s legs 
with those of the other girls. Here were the 
Marquis and Marquise de la Tour de Provence, 
very high-nosed and aristocratic, also — it must 
be confessed — very vacuous in expression. 
Here was Madame Poirier, Vivette’s mother, 
in maroon cashmere with an eruption of shiny 
black buttons along every seam. These but- 
tons had been fashionable some years ago, but 


286 


HONOR BRIGHT 


were now no longer so, and the good lady had 
used them, as she fondly imagined, to produce 
an effect ‘‘altogether of gentility.” Here at 
one side, was a little group that caught the eye 
at once: a handsome lady, richly dressed, be- 
side her a singularly beautiful girl. Mrs. Da- 
mian, entering the garden with Miss Folly, 
saw them, and made her way toward them at 
once. 

“Desmonds!” she explained to Miss Folly. 
“I should know a Desmond if I met him in the 
desert of Sahara; this must be Mrs. Clifford. 
How do you do, Mrs. Clifford Desmond? I 
am Mrs. Damian. I came very near marry- 
ing your father-in-law a hundred years ago — 
or perhaps it was only fifty. Is this your elder 
daughter? I have seen the younger one; 
knew her for a Desmond across the Public 
Garden.” 

“Is it possible that I have the pleasure of 
addressing Mrs. Damian?” cried the lady. 
“A most unexpected privilege! May I pre- 


THE APPLES OF ATALANTA 287 


sent my daughter Helena? Helena, my love, 
Mrs. Damian!” Mrs. Desmond spoke with 
great empressement. ‘‘It was my little Pa- 
tricia you saw in the garden; my baby! She 
is a pupil here. Patricia, this way, darling! 
I wish to present you to Mrs. Damian.” 

Patricia made her graceful reverence ; 
greeted her mother civilly, though without en- 
thusiasm, and turned to her sister. 

“Hello, Imp ! I’m as tall as you !” 

“I believe you are. Pixie!” said Helena Des- 
mond, known as Imperia to her friends and 
schoolmates. “Great weeds do grow apace, 
you know! I don’t believe you can wear the 
dress we have brought you from Paris. Who 
is the girl with red hair? She looks like a 
duck.” 

“She speaks but to quack!” replied Patri- 
cia. “That is Honor Bright. She is going 
away — ” 

Patricia stopped abruptly. To her amaze- 
ment and disgust, something seemed to swell 


288 


HONOR BRIGHT 


up in her throat, choking her; at the same 
time her eyes began to blur and smart. 

‘‘Good-by!” she said. “I must go!” and 
she fairly ran away. 

Honor now came flying up to greet Mrs. 
Damian. She, like Patricia, was in her run- 
ning dress, a simple white tunic, reaching just 
below the knee ; her bright hair floated on her 
shoulders. Mrs. Damian surveyed her with 
evident pleasure. 

“Mrs. Clifford Desmond, this is my little 
cousin!” she said. “Seymour Bright’s daugh- 
ter. I am taking her home with me soon. 
Well, Honor, and do you expect to win the 
apples? Eh?” 

“It is that I shall do my possible!” Honor 
had made her pretty courtesy to both ladies, 
and was casting shy, admiring glances at 
Helena. She spoke now carefully, anxious to 
have her English correct; and naturally fell 
into the mistake of over-carefulness. “It is 
Patricia, who runs bestly, my aunt ; we strive. 


THE APPLES OP ATALANTA 289 


each as we can, in our maniere. Ah!” she 
started, and her hands came together with a 
clasp. ‘‘Graciously will to excuse me, mes- 
dames! I see — ” 

She was gone; Mrs. Damian looked after 
her complacently. 

“They call her ‘Oriole,’ I believe, or some 
such name. She certainly moves like a bird. 
Your daughter will have to do her possible, 
Mrs. Desmond, to win the race.” 

“Pat’s legs are longer,” said Helena Des- 
mond judicially, “but the little one has the 
pace. I shall put my money on her.” 

Whither had Honor flown? To the gar- 
den gate, that opening from the kitchen gar- 
den, in which three figures now appeared. 
Two of them were tall, massive figures of wom- 
en, resplendent in full Swiss costume, their 
broad, comely faces alight with pleasure: the 
third, that of a boy, slight and delicate, walk- 
ing with crutches. 

“Zitli! Gretli! Oh, I am so glad, so glad 


290 


HONOR BRIGHT 


to see you ! Oh, how angelic of you to come ! ” 

‘‘And we, then, my little mademoiselle!” 
cried Gretli, seizing the outstretched hands. 
“Are we glad, do you suppose? Eh, Zitli? 
Have we missed her, our little guest? Say 
then, thou!” 

Zitli nodded emphatically. 

“As one misses the sunlight!” he said. 
“We are happy to be here, mademoiselle. We 
come to see you win the apples — which be- 
hold!” he added, drawing a parcel from his 
pocket. » “May I not show them, my Sister?” 

“But no! certainly not!” Gretli shook her 
head vehemently. “I must take them at once 
to Madame. Well then,” seeing the disap- 
pointment in both faces, “it may be that a tiny 
peep — since after all it is Mademoiselle Honor 
who will finally possess them — But turn 
thy back, that no one else see!” 

Shaking out their wide skirts, the sisters 
stood before Honor and Zitli, screening them 
effectively from sight. Eagerly Zitli opened 


THE APPLES OF ATALANTA 291 


the neat wooden box ; eagerly Honor bent for- 
ward, to peep at the trophy, the three golden 
apples shining on their bed of green satin. 

‘‘But it is a jewel!” she cried. “Zitli, how 
beautiful ! A queen might wear it.” 

“No jewel, mademoiselle; wood simply, and 
gold leaf ; but there are strokes in it, that I con- 
fess!” 

Zitli spoke modestly, but his eyes shone ; he 
was proud, as he well might be, of his work. 

“Behold my Ladies, who approach!” cried 
Gretli. “Give me quickly the box, my little 
one! I will return to find thee a place, fear 
not!” 

The sisters moved away, and the boy and 
girl were left together. 

“Zitli,” cried Honor, “tell me quickly! 
How is everybody? How is Atli? And La 
Dumaine, and Seraphine, and Bimbo, and 
Moufflon, and Tell, and — ” 

^'Sapperli poppetteT cried Zitli, laughing. 
“One moment, mademoiselle ! One at a time. 


292 


HONOR BRIGHT 


not so? My brother, he is altogether well. 
He is in the high Alps, hunting the chamois, in 
manner that he could not come with us to the 
fete. The animals? Figure to yourself that 
La Dumaine has a calf! the image of herself, 
white as the moon, altogether beautiful. 
Mademoiselle, we have taken the liberty — my 
sister thought you would not object — briefly, 
we have named her La Moriole.” 

^'No! you haven’t! Oh, Zitli, how per- 
fectly darling of you ! Oh, I am so delighted ! 
Oh, how I should like to see her!” 

‘Tor example! We are hoping, my sister 
and I — my brother also, if he were not absent 
— that mademoiselle will soon do us the honor 
to visit the ChMet again, to see her namesake, 
and—” 

He stopped short, seeing Honor’s face 
change. 

“Zitli,” she cried, “I shall never see the 
Chalet again! never, never, never! I am go- 
ing away, across the ocean, to America. My 


THE APPLES OF ATALANTA 293 


heart is broken, so I shall not live long, do you 
see? I am glad of that, of course, because I 
have to be cheerful, and that is not easy with a 
broken heart — Zitli! you are laughing at me!” 

A quick flush swept over Honor’s face. 
Zitli, instantly responsive, seized her hand. 

“Forgive me, mademoiselle! I implore 
your forgiveness!” he cried. “I was not 
laughing, only smiling. Mademoiselle looks 
so — in fine, so other than heart-broken.” 

“Looks mean little!” Honor was really 
hurt. She had thought Zitli would under- 
stand. She longed to quote to him the lines 
which seemed so appropriate to her condition: 

‘‘When hollow hearts shall wear a mask 
’Twill break thine own to see. 

In such a moment I but ask 
That you’ll remember me!” 

Patricia laughed at them, and said they 
made neither sense nor poetry, but Maria 
thought them lovely. 

“Looks mean little!” she repeated. “I 


294 


HONOR BRIGHT 


thought you would understand, Zitli!” 

‘‘Dear mademoiselle, I do understand, in- 
deed I do. It grieves me to the heart that you 
must go, and that you are unhappy. Only — 
to cross the ocean ! To see that great wonder- 
ful country of America — ah ! sap peril! Think 
how many would give all they possess for a 
chance!” 

“But — but to leave Switzerland, Zitli 1 
You couldn’t bear it yourself?” 

Zitli gave his quaint shrug. 

“My faith, mademoiselle, I do not know. 
Not, of course, unless I was sure, sure, of re- 
turning to my own country. But it appears to 
me that America is your own country. Made- 
moiselle Honor. One has — forgive me, but 
you have said we are friends — one has a duty 
to that, not so?” 

Honor hung her head. 

“I never thought of that 1” she said. “How 
could a great country need a girl like me?” 

Zitli looked at her with kind grave eyes ; she 


THE APPLES OP ATALANTA 295 


had not realized before how like he was, on his 
small scale, to the Twins. 

‘‘My brother Atli says, my sister Gretli also, 
that a country has need of all her children. 
They should be always ready — pardon, made- 
moiselle! One beckons you yonder, the an- 
cient lady, very beautiful, on the bench.” 

“It is my aunt — at least I am to call her 
aunt!” explained Honor. “Come, Zitli, come 
and be introduced to her! She is strange, but 
so kind and good ; I want you to know her. 

“My aunt,” she cried, when Zitli, making 
his best speed on his crutches, had reached the 
corner where Mrs. Damian sat, and had made 
his bow, “this is Zitli, my friend! I am glad 
for him to know you; and for you to know 
him!” she added, her cheeks glowing with 
loyal affection. 

Mrs. Damian held out her delicate hand 
with its weight of costly rings; Zitli took it rev- 
erentially in his brown, slender fingers and 
bowed again over it. 


296 


HONOR BRIGHT 


‘This is Zitli-my-friend, is it?” said the 
old lady. “How do you do, Zitli-my-friend? 
Are you a good boy?” 

Her dark eyes pierced him, Zitli told Gretli 
afterward, like a sword; never had he encoun- 
tered such a gaze. He colored high, but met 
the look bravely. 

“As to that, madame, with reverence be it 
said, it would be necessary to ask the Eternal 
Father. To be good is my desire, but not yet 
my accomplishment.” 

Mrs. Damian nodded. “Well answered! 
We may all say the same, Zitli-my-friend. 
Honor has told me about you; will you and 
your sister come to see me at my hotel before 
you go home? Good! You spend the night 
in V evay ? To-morrow then ! ” 

She gave him a nod of dismissal, curt but 
kindly; Zitli bowed again and stumped away to 
join his sisters. 

“You allow your little — a — charge — to 
make acquaintance with the peasantry?” Mrs. 


THE APPLES OF ATALANTA 297 


Desmond spoke in a tone of airy silver, like 
that Patricia used in her bad moments. 

“I allow — and desire — my little charge to 
make the acquaintance of good people, wher- 
ever she meets them!” Mrs. Damian spoke 
dryly, with a nod at each clause. ‘Tolly, the 
sun is in my eyes. Move my chair over yon- 
der, will you?” She indicated a spot at some 
distance, and with a ceremonious bow to Mrs. 
Desmond, moved off. 

“I should have bitten that woman in another 
moment!” she explained. “My Professor 
never liked me to bite in company. This will 
do! What? Sun here too? Woman, try 
to have a little sense! What did you bring 
the parasol for?” 

She seated herself, with a sweep of satin 
draperies, and continued, 

“And it is to the society of people of that 
description that you are forcing me back. 
Forcing me back, do you hear? After fifty 
years of freedom! For the last ten of them. 


298 


HONOR BRIGHT 


the desolate freedom of the wild ass, as you say 
— and I hope you think it is a proper remark 
for you to make — ” 

‘‘I will not repeat it, Mrs. Damian,” replied 
Miss Folly, who had not opened her lips. 

“See that you don’t! Look! They are 
going to start. Folly, I — I hope the child 
will win!” 

“I hope she will. It is between her and the 
Desmond girl, certainly.” 

“Trip up the Desmond girl! Throw a 
stone in front of her, can’t you? You have no 
invention. Folly. My Indian Amma would 
have had a snake up her sleeve, at the very 
least. W estern civilization — so-called — is 
abhorrent to me, do you hear? There they 
go!” 

The girls were ranged at the head of the 
broad allee; five of them: Patricia, Honor, 
Stephanie, Vivette, and Desiree de Laval, who, 
though only thirteen, was tall and long-legged. 
A pretty sight they were, in their white tunics 


THE APPLES OP ATALANTA 299 


and sandals. A silver whistle sounded a sin- 
gle clear note; they stood at attention, tense 
as a strung bow, waiting for the start ; a second 
note, and with a flutter of white garments, a 
shimmer of bright hair, they were off. 

The allee was one hundred yards long; the 
course was twice the length of it. For the first 
fifty yards the girls kept well together; after 
that, practice, weight, and form began to tell. 
Vivette had no chance from the first, and knew 
it; she ‘Vent in” for every prize as a matter 
of principle and policy, and pounded along 
doggedly, bent on doing her best, whatever 
might be the result. Stephanie made a dash 
for the lead, but not attaining it, soon lost cour- 
age. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes, usually the kindli- 
est of writers, has shot one barbed arrow at my 
sex. 

“The cow began to run,” he says, “as only 
cows and — it would not be safe to say it — can 


run. 


soo 


HONOR BRIGHT 


I wish the dear Doctor could have seen 
Honor and Patricia run. Vivette was cow- 
like, if you will; Stephanie was swift, but 
jerky, and with ‘‘not one particle of style!” as 
Helena Desmond murmured to herself. As 
they came down the allee on the first lap, these 
two were already dropping behind. Desiree, 
who was to make in time a notable runner, had 
not yet found herself, and was leaping like a 
colt, arms and legs flying like the sails of a 
windmill. 

“But the other two,” said Imperia; “my 
word, they can run !” 

Heads high, arms held close at the side, 
every muscle in play, yet in perfect control — 
Patricia and Honor sped down the course, side 
by side, light as thistle-down, swift as flying 
arrows, a lovely sight. So Atalanta herself 
ran, with 

“. . . feet 

That make the blown foam neither swift nor white 
Though the wind winnow and whirl it.” 


THE APPLES OF ATALANTA 301 


They rounded the turn. Patricia was a step 
in advance, but only a step; the little breeze 
that frolicked beside them blew their floating 
hair together as they ran, the pale gold min- 
gling with the red. Desiree, just behind, gave 
a wild leap, and dropped on the grass at the 
side; Stephanie and Vivette were far behind. 
The excitement grew intense as the two girls 
came down the home stretch; neck and neck 
now, not a pace between them. 

“Moriole! Moriole!” the girls’ voices 
broke out in a shrill clamor. ‘‘Moriole wins! 
No! It is Patricia! No, Moriole! Ah, ah! 
Vive la M oriole T 

What happened ? Certainly Miss Folly had 
nothing to do with it, for her arms were folded 
under her neat mantle. At the very end, 
when almost touching the goal, Patricia 
seemed to stumble, as if over a loose stone. 
She recovered herself in an instant, but that 
instant had carried Honor past her to the fin- 
ish, just one pace ahead. 


302 


HONOR BRIGHT 


A storm of applause broke out, but Honor 
did not seem to hear it. Panting, breathless, 
she stared at her rival, who returned her gaze 
with a smile which was not quite so gay as she 
meant it to be. 

‘‘Patricia! You are hurt? What was it? 
But it is not fair! You would have won; I 
shall tell our Sister! The prize shall be 
yours!” 

“Don’t be grotesque, my dear!” Patricia 
was entirely herself now, and her speech, 
though still panting, was her own. “It was a 
close thing, and a pretty race, and I congratu- 
late you. That’s all there is to it!” 

Still bewildered. Honor examined the 
ground carefully. The hard white sand 
showed hardly a trace of the flying feet; there 
was no sign of any stone. 

“It must have rolled away,” said Patricia 
carelessly. “Come on, little thing, and get 
your prize. And don’t be afraid,” she added, 
in an enigmatic tone; “I’ll get it next year! 


THE APPLES OF ATALANTA 303 


No fairy godmother for me, to whisk me over- 
seas. I’ll get the apples next time, little 
Blackbird!” 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE BLAZE OF GLORY 

‘There are two ways of doing it!” said Mrs. 
Damian. “There is the dark lantern, hole- 
and-corner way, and there is the Blaze of 
Glory.” 

Miss Folly looked up inquiringly. She sel- 
dom spoke when a look sufficed. 

“We can pack the child up at the Pension,” 
Mrs. Damian continued, “sneak off in a cab to 
the station, leaving a trail of tears and sniffs 
behind us, and depart as if we were all going to 
the penitentiary together; or we can give her 
a Party and a Send-off, and go — as I said — in 
a Blaze of Glory. What do you say?” 

“If I were the child, I should prefer the dark 
lantern,” said Miss Folly thoughtfully. 

“Of course you would!” Mrs. Damian 

304 


THE BLAZE OF GLORY 


305 


swooped like a hawk. ‘‘You have not red 
hair; and you are a mouse. A trained and 
intelligent mouse — no! I have it! You are a 
mongoose, Folly. Exactly! There is no dif- 
ference. ‘The Wild Ass and the Mongoose, 
an Indian Fable.’ What is the plural of 
mongoose?” 

“Mongooses!” replied Miss Folly promptly. 

“Right! My former Affliction — I should 
say companion — would persist in saying ‘mon- 
geese.’ I corrected her seventeen times; the 
eighteenth time I threw a sofa-pillow at her, 
and she left. Egypt was glad at her depart- 
ing. As I was saying. Mongoose, you have 
not red hair, nor the dramatic temperament. 
This child has both. Therefore I decide on 
the Blaze of Glory. Bring pencil and paper, 
and we will make a list of the fireworks.” 

So it came to pass that the day after the final 
examinations, when the girls were packing 
their trunks and exchanging last tokens and 


306 


HONOR BRIGHT 


protestations of affection, they were told that 
they were all invited to the Hotel Royal, to 
spend the evening with Mrs. Damian. 

‘‘And with Honor, naturally!” said Soeur 
Seraphine. “Our Moriole has already gone to 
join her venerable relative. Mrs. Damian 
most kindly sends carriages for us at a quar- 
ter before seven o’clock precisely; be ready, 
my children!” 

Honor had gone an hour before, after a talk 
with Madame Madeleine which she was to re- 
member as long as she lived. The dear lady 
might have been parting with her own child, 
so tender was she, so full of affectionate solici- 
tude. She repeated again and again her in- 
junctions; to be good, to be happy; to think 
sometimes of the friends who loved her. 

“Happy?” said poor Honor. “I will try to 
be good, dear Madame; I will be cheerful, be- 
cause I have promised; but — happy? I shall 
never be happy again; never, never, never!” 

She burst into wild weeping. Madame 



OH ! 


^ on, HOW LOVELY ! ’ ” 


C i i 


9 


ClUFA) HONOR 





_ . 

« 




THE BLAZE OF GLORY 


307 


Madeleine watched her for a little in silence, 
letting the tears take their way. Then she 
rose, and opening a drawer of her little escri- 
toire — they were sitting in her own room, to 
which we were admitted only on special occa- 
sions — took out a small object. 

‘"Dry thy tears, my child!” she said, in her 
grave, kind voice. “I have something to show 
thee!” 

It was a miniature-case that she held in her 
hand. She opened it, and Honor, wiping her 
swollen eyes, bent to look. A girl smiled at 
her; a girl older than herself, yet still in the 
freshness of youth: joyous, frank, beautiful as 
a flower, the eyes alight with happiness, the 
perfect mouth trembling to a smile. 

“Oh!” cried Honor. “Oh, how lovely! 
how exquisite ! Who is it, Madame ?” 

“It is my sister!” said Madame gravely. 
“It is Soeur Seraphine, whom you see every 
day and all day long. Honor.” 

Honor looked again. 


308 


HONOR BRIGHT 


“I see it is!” Her voice was full of awe. 
“Of course it is ! But — oh, Madame ! What 
— what happened to our Sister?” 

Madame Madeleine paused, as if commun- 
ing with herself. 

“Why not?” she said finally. “It may 
help! Listen, Honor! This was my sister 
Marie Seraphine at eighteen ; that is, so much 
of her as could be caught and fixed in color. 
Of herself, the spirit of gayety and mirth that 
she was, it gives but the shadow. She was be- 
trothed, to a man whom she tenderly loved; a 
man of whom one can but say that he seemed 
sent to earth to show what man could be. 
They were happy; they were to be married, 
from this very house, where then my beloved 
husband was still with me. A week before the 
wedding day — ” 

The kind voice faltered a moment; then 
went quietly on, 

“The two young people were in Paris, visit- 
ing friends. A great Bazaar was being held 


THE BLAZE OF GLORY 


309 


for charity, in a certain chapel. They — they 
went — ” the voice broke. 

“Oh, madame ! I know! I have heard — 
That terrible fire! So many lives lost — Oh! 
they were not there?” 

Madame bowed her head. 

“When the flames broke out, they were near 
a window. By God’s mercy, he — Rene — ^was 
able to break the window, and thrust my sister 
out into the street. Another woman, and yet 
another, he rescued; then — the crowd found 
him; they clung to him, they dragged him — 
befell back—” 

Honor covered her face with her hands, 
shuddering. 

Madame Madeleine was silent for a few mo- 
ments; then she went on. 

“It is not to agonize thee, my child, that I 
tell this sad tale. ‘ Listen still! At first, my 
sister prayed for death, as one prays for the 
morning. God did not send her that relief. 
Then she sought the religious life, and found 


310 


HONOR BRIGHT 


therein a measure of peace. Time and work 
and prayer scarfed over the wound that never 
could wholly heal. For some years she con- 
tinued in this, till the convent was broken up ; 
then she came to me. 

‘‘That is the story, my Moriole, of my sis- 
ter’s life. I do not often speak of it. I tell it 
to thee, that thou may’st know what real sor- 
row is, and how it may be borne. Take this 
knowledge with thee, my child, and may it 
prove profitable to thee!” 

She kissed Honor’s forehead gravely, then 
made a little gesture of dismissal, and turned 
to replace the miniature. 

Creeping away with bowed head and beat- 
ing heart. Honor inet Soeur Seraphine coming 
along the corridor with her light, swift tread. 
At sight of her, the Sister’s face, tranquil and 
beautiful, broke into its lovely smile, and 
Honor started, it was so like the pictured face 
that had smiled at her a moment; so like, yet 
— ah, how different! 


THE BLAZE OF GLORY 


311 


^'TiensT said Soeur Seraphine. ‘‘My lit- 
tle Moriole, I was seeking thee. The hour 
approaches, and thy toilette is not yet made. 
Thou hast been weeping, my child. I could 
well weep too, at losing thee, but the smile is 
the better fashion, see’st thou ! As Monsieur 
thy father observed, ‘Bokope,’ my Moriole! 
Come then, and I will tie thy ribbon for thee!” 

“First,” said Mrs. Damian, “we will inspect 
the tokens.” 

“The tokens?” repeated Honor, slightly be- 
wildered; Mrs. Damian was in one of her most 
swooping moods, and had already taken her 
breath away twice. 

“Of affection !” replied the lady. “Tokens 
of affection; souvenirs; gimcracks; anything 
you choose to call them. This way, my dear !” 

She led the way into a little boudoir, which 
seemed to be furnished largely with tissue pa- 
per and parcels, and motioned Honor toward a 
table on which lay a number of small objects. 


312 


HONOR BRIGHT 


Honor bent over them in wonder and delight. 
Nine heart-shaped lockets of rock-crystal, each 
containing a tiny likeness of herself. Beside 
them, a larger print of her in a silver frame. 

‘‘Oh! how lovely!” cried Honor, clasping 
her hands. “How perfectly lovely! Are 
they — do they — ” 

“They are for your schoolmates, naturally. 
You said there were nine of them? ‘Nine 
homesick puppies, in nine vehicles, straying 
sadly down the road to Peking.’ ^ Quota- 
tion; contains a buried city. H’m! Well! 
Yes. The large one is for the two good ladies, 
who do not wear gimcracks. W ell ? Are you 
pleased?” 

“But I am enchanted! They are exquisite. 
And all the girls have been begging me for my 
picture. But when were they taken, my 
aunt?” 

“Folly snapped her kodak at you, the day of 
the race, and had the print enlarged. I found 

^ Mrs. Hugh Fraser. 


THE BLAZE OF GLOEY 


313 


the lockets at Interlaken. Now you know as 
much as I do. Glad you like them !” 

‘‘And — oh! and my hair looks dark!” cried 
Honor. “It really does !” 

“Yes, that is the only trouble with the 
likeness. Red hair should be powdered be- 
fore photographing, or it looks perfectly 
black.” 

“Oh, if it only were!” cried poor Honor. 
“I have always longed so for dark hair, ma- 
dame. In America — would it be wicked if I 
blacked it, my aunt? It is wicked in Switzer- 
land, our Sister says.” 

“It would be idiotic,” said Mrs. Damian, 
“which is more to the point. Don’t be an 
idiot, child, whatever else you are. Look! 
Here is your dressing-case. Like it?” 

But here Honor became speechless. Dark- 
est green morocco, lined with satin, fitted with 
brushes, combs, and innumerable bottles, all 
in warm-white ivory, all marked — H.B. What 
could fourteen-year-old Llonor say' at sight of 


314 


HONOR BRIGHT 


this marvel? She could only gasp, and clasp 
her hands together. It was some minutes be- 
fore she managed to stammer out, 

‘‘I am combled! I am altogether combled, 
madame ! What generosity, what goodness ! ” 

‘‘You like it?” repeated Mrs. Damian, 
watching her with evident pleasure. 

“I have dreamed of such a thing!” said 
Honor. “I never thought to see one. Can it 
possibly be actually mine, madame?” 

“It not only can, but is. Nobody else 
would want it, you see, with your initials on 
it.” 

“I thank you 1 Oh, I thank you a hundred 
thousand times, for the beautiful, beautiful 
things, but, ah, how much more for your kind- 
ness! It enlarges me the heart! I — I — ” 
Honor faltered. 

''Don't cry! If you cry. I’ll break all the 
bottles. Here! take these chains and put the 
lockets on them!” Mrs. Damian held out a 
box containing a number of slender gold 


THE BLAZE OF GLORY 


315 


chains. ‘‘When the girls come, you may put 
them round their necks and make a pretty 
speech to each one. I have no time for pretty 
speeches. H’m! Folly, how about the em- 
eralds? Pretty, with the white frock and the 
hair, eh?” 

“Pretty, but very unsuitable!” said Miss 
Folly briefly. 

“True! though I don’t know what business 
it is of yours. No ornaments at all, eh? 
Much better so ! Put the diamond stars in my 
cap, will you? Some one must dress up a lit- 
tle ; if you say much more. Mongoose, Fll make 
you wear the emeralds yourself, and a pretty 
sight you’d be!” 

Honor privately thought that Miss Folly 
needed nothing more to make her a pretty 
sight. In her simple dark blue dress, with 
the fichu of soft net and the old-fashioned to- 
paz brooch, she was pretty enough, in all con- 
science. She seemed never in the least dis- 
composed by Mrs. Damian’s abrupt speeches. 


316 


HONOR BRIGHT 


She smiled now and went away, presumably to 
arrange the diamonds. 

^'H’m!” said Mrs. Damian. ‘‘Sit down, my 
dear. Don’t fidget! Your friends will be 
here soon. The last party I gave — let me see 1 
Was it in Russia? After the last one I gave 
there, I remember, the servants ate up all the 
candles. But — no! the very last one was in 
Africa, in the Great Desert. My dear ! would 
you like to hear about it? Fold your hands in 
your lap — lightly! Don’t clasp them. I am 
not Grand Opera. And don’t turn in your 
toes! So! We were quite a caravan, and 
there had been a sandstorm which came very 
near being the final party for all of us — h’m ! 
yes! Well — so when we got to the nearest 
oasis and found we were all alive, it seemed 
proper to celebrate. You see?” 

Mrs. Damian swooped; Honor blinked and 
caught her breath, then nodded eagerly. 

“I see, my aunt! Continue, I pray you!” 

“We ranged the camels and horses in a 


THE BLAZE OF GLORY 


317 


circle; after watering them, naturally. The 
mats were spread, and the Mohammedans said 
their prayers : well, I said mine too, only with- 
out demonstration. I am too old to show you 
how a Moslem prays; he kneels, tumbles for- 
ward on his forehead, then back on his heels. 
Very singular! Fd make Folly do it for you, 
but she has scruples.” This, as Miss Folly 
entered with the cap. ‘‘Thanks, Folly! Put 
it on for me, will you? Straight, please! 
None of your piratical rakishness! I believe 
you are a Buccaneer in disguise! Well, we 
supped on fresh dates, locusts and wild honey 
— I felt like John the Baptist — I had a gar- 
ment of camel’s hair, too, though probably 
different from his — What is it, my dear? 
Keep your eyes in your head; they look better 
there.” 

“Pardon me, my aunt! But — locusts? 

Really?” 

“Really! fried in olive oil; crisp, and not at 
all bad. The Sheik could not eat with us. 


318 


HONOR BRIGHT 


we being Infidels, but he sent us coffee, and 
was very friendly. Indeed, he offered to buy 
me. I was too old for a wife, he said, but he 
liked my talk, and thought I would do for a 
mother. I never was so flattered in my life; 
but my Professor decided to keep me. We 
had water that night to wash in ; a small pitch- 
erful, but still water, a great luxury. For a 
week we had washed in sand. But yes, cer- 
tainly!” at Honor’s exclamation of amazement. 
‘‘It is often so in the desert, where there isn’t 
water enough to drink. Sand is efficacious, 
but gritty. Ah! here come our friends.” 

The girls entered on the stroke of seven, 
blushing and twittering, shepherded by Soeur 
Seraphine in her gray dress and spotless 
coif. 

“She looks like a Princess of the Blood!” 
murmured Mrs. Damian. “Learn to hold 
yourself like that. Honor, and your hair may 
be red or green or piebald, it will not matter. 
Good evening, my Sister! I am delighted to 


THE BLAZE OF GLORY 


319 


see you. Young ladies, you are very wel- 
come.” 

Mrs. Damian’s French was that of one who 
to a natural gift has added fifty years of prac- 
tice; nevertheless, she spoke English now, 
having divined with her lightning instinct that 
the Sister’s one little heavenly vanity was her 
English. 

‘‘Ze plaisir — pardon! — ze plaisure is teeto- 
tally to oz, madame! Be’old oz gazzered as 
von ’eart, von speerit, von sentiment, to greet 
you and our beloved young friend. Honor, 
all to thee, my little one ! My children, Eng- 

lishr 

The last words were a swift aside to the 
girls, and brought comfort or disaster, accord- 
ing to one’s nationality. All very well for 
Patricia and Maria, though the latter could 
only mumble, not having the gift of tongues, 
scarcely even of her own. Vivette enunci- 
ated neatly her ""Good evening, Mrs. and Miss. 
’Ow do you carry yourself?” and passed on. 


320 


HONOR BRIGHT 


swelling visibly with modest pride. Rose 
Marie and most of the others escaped with a 
polite murmur which might have been Eng- 
lish or Choctaw. But poor Stephanie! she 
had hoped to escape speech altogether by keep- 
ing well behind the Sister’s ample robes. Eng- 
lish was to her an “apoplexy of a language,” 
and she rather made a point of not knowing 
any. But now little Loulou, who had spoken 
very nicely, and who had her own idea of what 
was proper, gave a shrewd pinch to Stephanie’s 
arm, at the very instant when Soeur Seraphine, 
extending a firm hand, drew her inexorably 
forward into full view. 

“Aie ! goodnight I ” shrieked Stephanie, 
bobbing a distracted courtesy. 

The girls tittered; Soeur Seraphine flushed. 
Mrs. Damian’s lips twitched for a moment, but 
she rose to the occasion. 

“I am glad to see you, my dear!” she said 
cordially. “You are Stephanie Langolles, I 
think? You are to sit next Honor at supper. 


THE BLAZE OF GLORY 


321 


And there is the bell this minute!” she added. 
^‘Let us come in without ceremony; Honor, 
lead the way with the Sister, will you?” 

Honor would never acknowledge that the 
Feast of Departure surpassed the Fete de Re- 
tour at the Pension, but Soeur Seraphine de- 
clared she had never seen anything so charm- 
ing. Mrs. Damian nodded, well pleased. It 
was a feast of birds, she explained ; of orioles, 
as nearly as Miss Folly could make it with 
crepe paper and black pins. Beside each 
plate stood a little black and orange bird, hold- 
ing a card in his bill. The soup was in swan- 
shaped cups, the long necks curving to form 
the handles. 

"Tt should be birds’ nest soup, of course,” 
said the hostess, ‘‘but there were no nests in 
the market.” 

The potato balls that accompanied the roast 
duck were bird-shaped, too, golden-brown 
ducklings, with peppercorn eyes. And when 
it came to the dessert — oh! oh! could it be 


322 


HONOR BRIGHT 


possible? Who ever saw a mother hen of 
strawberry ice-cream, with pink and white 
chickens clustering round her? Long before 
this point was reached, the girls’ tongues were 
loosened, and they were chattering like a flock 
of sparrows. 

When it came to ‘‘second helps,” Mrs. Da- 
mian nodded to Honor, who slipped quietly 
out and returned, bringing the “tokens.” She 
went round the table, with a kiss and a mur- 
mured word for each girl as she clasped the 
chain round her neck. Her eyes were bright 
with tears, but she would not let them fall. 
Mrs. Damian watched her keenly, and nodded 
to herself well pleased. The child was thor- 
oughbred ; no danger of a scene ! 

As the girls burst into exclamations of won- 
der and delight. Honor slipped out again, in 
obedience to a signal from Miss Folly, who 
without a word led her into the tissue-paper 
room. On the bed lay a traveling costume of 
russet wool, tasteful and simple; beside it the 


THE BLAZE OF GLORY 


323 


prettiest of hats to match. Gloves, belt, shoes 
of russet suede; nothing was wanting. 

‘'Dress yourself quickly,” said Miss Folly. 
“I must go and help Mrs. Damian. Dont 
stop to think! Time for that afterwards. 
You have twenty minutes!” 

She vanished. Honor never could remem- 
ber how she got through those twenty min- 
utes. She only knew that before they were 
over, she was ready, and stood trembling in 
every limb, unable, it seemed to her, to speak 
or move. The door opened; there stood Mrs. 
Damian, Miss Folly behind her, both dressed 
for traveling. 

“Good!” said Mrs. Damian. “You will 
make a traveler 1 Come 1 ” 

She took Honor’s hand in her firm, cool 
grasp, and led her back to the dining room. 
The girls were deep in the mysteries of costume 
crackers, putting on paper caps and bonnets, 
shrieking with laughter. At sight of the 
three, they sprang up in amazement. 


324 


HONOR BRIGHT 


“Oh!” cried Stephanie. “Oh, Moriole! 
No! no! It cannot be. You do not leave 
us!” 

“Hush!” Mrs. Damian’s tone was kindly, 
but final. “No tears or tantrums! Nothing 
of the sort. The Sister will explain all. Kiss 
her, and say good-by!” 

All their mirth gone in a moment, the girls 
flocked round Honor, with tears, embraces, 
broken words of affection. 

“Don’t forget me, little thing!” whispered 
Patricia. “You’ve done a lot for me, though 
you don’t know it. Au revoir in New York 
some day!” 

“Moriole,” cried Stephanie, “my heart 
breaks! I perish!” 

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Damian. 

“Compose thyself, my child!” said Soeur 
Seraphine. “This is the inevitable, to 
which we must bow. Adieu, Honor! The 
good God be with thee, little beloved 
one!” 


THE BLAZE OF GLORY 


325 


‘‘Adieu! Adieu, Moriole! Do not forget 
us I Come back to us 1 ” 

They were all at the door now, clustering 
like bees, waving hands and handkerchiefs. 
Looking back for the last time. Honor saw 
Soeur Seraphine’s face, with its heavenly smile 
of patience and kindness. She smiled back 
bravely; the carriage started, rolled swiftly 
on. 

What followed was all like a dream. The 
station agleam with lights; the train standing 
panting in slow, regular breaths, ready for the 
start; the guard’s cry, “In the carriage, gen- 
tlemen and ladies, if you please!”; the smiling 
porter who took possession of them and their 
belongings, even the precious dressing-bag, to 
which Honor would fain have clung. Here it 
was, though, a moment later, in this little fairy- 
like cabin with its two white berths, one above 
the other. 

“Folly prefers the upper berth,” said Mrs. 
Damian. “I can’t imagine why, unless from 




HONOR BRIGHT 


mongoosiness. Good night, child! Sleep 
well 1 Remember, the train will say anything 
you want it to say. Try ‘good luck’!” 

What was the train saying? Lying in the 
white berth, her brain still throbbing, her heart 
still beating fast. Honor tried to listen, tried to 
fit words to the rhythmic sound. 

“Good luck! good luck!” That did not 
quite fit. “Clank-clank — good luck! clank — 
clank — buck up !” 

Good-by, ah, good-by! 

“On the Alp the grass is sweetest, 

Li-u-o, my Queen!” 

That went better, but still — 

The locomotive found its stride; the train 
settled into a smooth rhythmic movement, 
which steadily, insensibly, straightened out the 
twisted nerves, quieted the throbbing brain, 
soothed, lulled, comforted. 

“Tumpty turn, tumpty turn, 

Tumpty, tumpty, tumpty turn!” 


THE BLAZE OF GLORY 


327 


And as sleep came softly stealing, drawing 
her veil of quietness over the tired child, she 
murmured, half awake, half in slumber, the 
old, old words : 

‘Tour comers to my bed, 

Four angels round my head, 

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, 

Bless the bed that I lie on!” 


THE END 


1 ' 




f.i. 


I 




v#-: 




»' ./A 








/O' * I < 




i .*, 


»v 




ii 






V 




M . •»' 


iM^v M: • itk'y^&^:.:\ ;. 


V4.: 


\i 




V’ v't 


». '- . ». 






A 




?v 


. 4k « 


iw 




■Si.v 


/ 's 


' * <■ ^•VCt'vK' 

• ir ■ 'i;.' : 'fei;a 

ft»>iv 4 »."!!i ' - A' ■ . ,\;'',Vi! .' i ',® 

I 

« 

■’'*'■ ia 






'Tfv; 




y< 


:»T 




70 4. 


' •*.: '■ ‘ fr -' v; 

. v- ,p'-W 



1 j/r 


v:i^ 


ii! 




!)!' 


if'' 




*. ’ ;. 

II':. V 


/.I'' 


1‘ I 


, t 


I| 


1 




•:if< • 





Selections from 
The Page Company’s 
Books for Young People 

THE BLUE BONNET SERIES 

Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 
per volume ....... $1.65 

A TEXAS BLUE BONNET 

By Caroline E. Jacobs. 

“The book’s heroine. Blue Bonnet, has the very finest 
kind of wholesome, honest, lively girlishness.” — Chicago 
Inter-Ocean. 

BLUE BONNET’S RANCH PARTY 

By Caroline E. Jacobs and Edyth Ellerbeck Read. 
“ A healthy, natural atmosphere breathes from every 
chapter .” — Boston Transcript. 

BLUE BONNET IN BOSTON 

By Caroline E. Jacobs and Lela Horn Richards. 
“It is bound to become popular because of its whole- 
someness and its many human touches.” — Boston Globe. 

BLUE BONNET KEEPS HOUSE 

By Caroline E. Jacobs and Lela Horn Richards. 

“ It cannot fail to .prove fascinating to girls in their 
teens.” — New York Sun. 

BLUE BONNET — DEBUTANTE 

By Lela Horn Richards. 

An interesting picture of the unfolding of life for 
Blue Bonnet. 

BLUE BONNET OF THE SEVEN STARS 

By Lela Horn Richards. 

“The author’s intimate detail and charm of narration 
gives the reader an interesting story of the heroine’s war 
activities.” — Pittsburgh Leader. 

A — X 


THE PAGE COMPAHTS 


THE YOUNG PIONEER SERIES 

By Harrison Adams 

Each 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per 
volume .$1.65 

THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE OHIO; Or, 

Clearing the Wilderness. 

Such books as this are an admirable means of stimu- 
lating among the young Americans of to-day interest in 
the story of their pioneer ancestors and the early days of 
the Republic.” — Boston Globe. 

THE PIONEER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES ; 

Or, On the Trail of the Iroquois. 

“ The recital of the daring deeds of the frontier is not 
only interesting but instructive as well and shows the 
sterling type of character which these days of self-reliance 
and trial produced.” — American Tourist, Chicago, 

THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE MISSISSIPPI; 

Or, The Homestead in the Wilderness. 

“The story is told with spirit, and is full of adven- 
ture.” — New York Sun. 

THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE MISSOURI; 

Or, In the Country of the Sioux. 

“ Vivid in style, vigorous in movement, full of dramatic 
situations, true to historic perspective, this story is a 
capital one for boys.” — Watchman Examiner, New York 
City. 

THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE YELLOW- 
STONE; Or, Lost in the Land of Wonders. 
“There is plenty of lively adventure and action and 
the story is well told.” — Duluth Herald, Duluth, Minn. 

THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE COLUMBIA; 

Or, In the Wilderness of the Great Northwest. 

“ The story is full of spirited action and contains muc]) 
valuable historical information.”-~Ro«<o» herald* 

A-a 


BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE 


THE HADLEY HALL SERIES 

By Louise M. Breitenbach 
Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 
per volume $1.65 

ALMA AT HADLEY HALL 

“ The author is to be congratulated on having written 
such an appealing book for girls.” — Detroit Free Press. 

ALMA’S SOPHOMORE YEAR 

“ It cannot fail to appeal to the lovers of good things 
in girls’ books.” — Boston Herald. 

ALMA’S JUNIOR YEAR 

“ The diverse characters in the boarding-school are 
strongly drawn, the incidents are well developed and the 
action is never dull.” — The Boston Herald. 

ALMA’S SENIOR YEAR 

“ A healthy, natural atmosphere breathes from every 
chapter,” — Boston Transcript. 


THE GIRLS OF 
FRIENDLY TERRACE SERIES 

By Harriet Lummis Smith 
Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 
per volume $1.65 

THE GIRLS OF FRIENDLY TERRACE 

“ A book sure to please girl readers, for the author 
seems to understand perfectly the girl character.” — 
Boston Globe. 

PEGGY RAYMOND’S VACATION 

“It is a wholesome, hearty story.” — Utica Observer. 

PEGGY RAYMOND’S SCHOOL DAYS 

The book is delightfully written, and contains lots of 
exciting incidents. 

THE FRIENDLY TERRACE QUARTETTE 

These four lively girls found their opportunities to 
serve their country. The story of their adventures will 
bring anew to every girl v/ho reads about them the reali- 
zation of what she owes to her country. 

A--3 


THE PAGE C0MPANT8 


FAMOUS LEADERS SERIES 

By Charles H. L. Johnston 
Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 

'per volume ....... $3.00 

FAMOUS CAVALRY LEADERS 

“ More of such books should be written, books that 
acquaint young readers with historical personages in a 
pleasant, informal way.” — New York Sun. 

FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEFS 

“ Mr. Johnston has done faithful work in this volume, 
and his relation of battles, sieges and struggles of these 
famous Indians with the whites for the possession of 
America is a worthy addition to United States History.” 
— New York Marine Journal. 

FAMOUS SCOUTS 

“ It is the kind of a book that will have a great fascina- 
tion for boys and young men .” — New London Day. 

FAMOUS PRIVATEERSMEN AND ADVEN- 
TURERS OF THE SEA 

“ The tales are more than merely interesting ; they are 
entrancing, stirring the blood with thrilling force.” — 
Pittsburgh Post. 

FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN AND HEROES OF 
THE BORDER 

“ The accounts are not only authentic, but distinctly 
readable, making a book of wide appeal to all who love 
the history of actual adventure.” — Cleveland Leader. 

FAMOUS DISCOVERERS AND EXPLORERS 
OF AMERICA 

“ The book is an epitome of some of the wildest and 
bravest adventures of which the world has known.” — 
Brooklyn Daily Eagle. 

FAMOUS GENERALS OF THE GREAT WAR 

Who Led the United States and Her Allies to a Glo- 
rious Victory. 

“The pages of this book have the charm of romance 
without its unreality. The book illuminates, with life- 
like portraits, the history of the World War.” — Roches^ 
ter Post Express. 

A — 4 


BOOKS FOB YOUNG PEOPLE 


HILDEGARDE- MARGARET SERIES 

By Laxtka E. Richaeds 
Eleven Volumes 

The Hildegarde-Margaret Series, beginning with 
“ Queen Hildegarde ” and ending with “ The Merry- 
weathers,” make one of the best and most popular series 
of books for girls ever written. 

Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 
per volume . . . . . . . $1.65 

The eleven volumes boxed as a set . •< • $18.15 

LIST OF TITLES 

QUEEN HILDEGARDE 

HILDEGARDE ’S HOLIDAY 

HILDEGARDE’S HOIVIE 

HILDEGARDE’S NEIGHBORS 

HILDEGARDE 'S HARVEST 

THREE MARGARETS 

MARGARET MONTFORT 

PEGGY 

RITA 

FERNLEY HOUSE 

THE MERRYWEATHERS 
A — & 


THE PAGE COMPANY’S 


THE CAPTAIN JANUARY SERIES 

By Lauha E. Richards 

Each one volume, 12mo, cloth decorative, illus~ 
trated, per volume 75 cents 

CAPTAIN JANUARY 

A charming idyl of New England coast life, whose 
success has been very remarkable. 

SAME. Illustrated Holiday Edition • . $1.35 

MELODY: The Story of a Child. 

MARIE 

A companion to “Melody” and ‘‘Captain January.” 

ROSIN THE BEAU 

A sequel to “Melody” and “Marie.” 

SNOW-WHITE; Or, The House ih the Wood. 

JIM OF HELLAS; Or, Ih Durance Vile, and a 
companion story, Bethesda Pool, 

NARCISSA 

And a companion story, In Verona, being two delight- 
ful short stories of New England life. 

"SOME SAY” 

And a companion story, Neighbors in Cyrus. 

NAUTILUS 

“‘Nautilus’ is by far the best product of the author’s 
powers, and is certain to achieve the wide success it so 
richly merits.” 

ISLA HERON 

This interesting story is written in the author’s usual 
charming manner. 

THE LITTLE MASTER 

“ A well told, interesting tale of a high character.” -• 
California Gateway Gazette, 


BOOKS FOB YOVNO PEOPLE 


DELIGHTFUL BOOKS FOR LITTLE 
FOLKS 

By Laura E. Richards 

THREE MINUTE STORIES 

Cloth decorative, 12mo, with eight plates in full color 
and many text illustrations . . . . $1.50 

“ Little ones will understand and delight in the stories 
and poems .” — Indianapolis News. 

FIVE MINUTE STORIES 

Cloth decorative, square 12mo, illustrated . $1.50 

A charming collection of short stories and clever 
poems for children. 

MORE FIVE MINUTE STORIES 

Cloth decorative, square 12mo, illustrated . $1.50 

A noteworthy collection of short stories and poems 
for children, which will prove as popular with mothers 
as with boys and girls. 

FIVE MICE IN A MOUSE TRAP 

Cloth decorative, square 12mo, illustrated . $1.50 

The story of their lives and other wonderful things 
related by the Man in the Moon, done in the vernacular 
from the lunacular form by Laura E. Richards. 


A NEW BOOK FOR GIRLS 

By Laura E. Richards 

HONOR BRIGHT 

Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated . . . $1.75 

No girl ever deserved more to have a series of stories 
written about her than does HONOR BRIGHT, the new- 
est heroine of a talented author who has created many 
charming girls. Born of American parents who die 
in the far East, Honor spends her school days at the 
Pension Madeline in Vevey, Switzerland, surrounded by 
playmates of half a dozen nationalities. As are all of 
Mrs. Richards’ heroines, HONOR BRIGHT is the high- 
est type of the young girl of America, with all the in- 
dependence of character which is American to the core 
in young as in old. 

A — T 


THE PAGE COMPANY’S 


THE BOYS’ STORY OF THE 
RAILROAD SERIES 

By Burton E. Stevenson 
Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 
per volume ....... $1.&5 

THE YOUNG SECTION-HAND; Or, The Ad- 
ventures OF Allen West. 

“ The whole range of section railroading is covered in 
the story.” — Chicago Post. 

THE YOUNG TRAIN DISPATCHER 

“ A vivacious account of the varied and often hazard- 
ous nature of railroad life.” — Congregationalist. 

THE YOUNG TRAIN MASTER 

“ It is a book that can be unreservedly commended to 
anyone who loves a good, wholesome, thrilling, informing 
yarn.” — Passaic News. 

THE YOUNG APPRENTICE; Or, Allan West’s 
Chum. 

“The story is intensely interesting.” — Baltimore Sun. 


BOY SCOUT STORIES 

By Brewer Corcoran 

Published with the approval of “ The Boy Scouts of 
America.” 

Each, one volume, 12mo, cloth decorative, illus- 
trated, per volume $1.65 

THE BOY SCOUTS OF KENDALL VILLE 

The story of a bright young factory worker who can- 
not enlist because he has three dependents, but his 
knowledge of woodcraft and wig-wagging, gained through 
Scout practice, enables him to foil a German plot to blow 
up the munitions factory. 

THE BOY SCOUTS OF THE WOLF PATROL 

The boys of Gillfield who were not old enough to go 
to war found just as many thrills at home, chasing a 
German spy. 

A — 8 


BOOKS P*OB YOUNG PEOPLE 


THE CARITA SERIES 

By Lucy M. Blai^chari) 

Each, one volume, cloth decorative, 12mo, illus- 
trated $1.65 

CARITA, AND HOW SHE BECAME A PATRI- 
OTIC AMERICAN 

“ One of the strongest points of the book is the fact 
that its characters seem to be real people, doing the 
things that real people do. More than that, they are 
wholesome, worth-while folks whose companionship in- 
spires a sane and pleasing view of life.” — Salt Lake 
Tribune, Salt Lake City. 

CARITA’S NEW WORLD 

“Wholesome and altogether fascinating; all this can 
be truly said of all of Miss Blanchard’s stories for girls. 
‘ Carita’s New World ’ has both of these characteristics.” 
— Troy Record, Troy, N. Y. 

“ There is a fine originality about Carita that will make 
her adorable to all girls.” — Oakland Tribune. 


THE MERRYMAKERS SERIES 

By Herschel Williams 

Each, one volume, 12mo, illustrated . . $1.65 

THE MERRYMAKERS IN NEW YORK 

“ The book is bright and clever and gives an excellent 
picture of our great metropolis. One can in his imagina- 
tion see New York most entertainingly through the eyes 
of the young Merrymakers.” — St. Andrew's Cross, Phila- 
delphia. 

THE MERRYMAKERS IN CHICAGO 

The Merrymakers who had such a splendid Christmas 
vacation in New York, enjoy another rollicking good 
time, — a summer vacation in Chicago. While brother 
Ned, the young newspaper reporter, “ covers ” the Re- 
publican national convention in Chicago, Carl, the oldest 
of the four sightseeing Merrymakers, decides that he 
wants to own a department store some day, and inciden- 
tally learns all the steps he must take from being an 
errand boy to a merchant magnate. 

A — 9 


THE PAGE COMPANY'S 


IDEAL BOOKS FOR GIRLS 

Each, one volume, cloth decorative, 12mo, . $1.00 

A LITTLE CANDY BOOK FOR A LITTLE GIRL 

By Amy L. Waterman. 

“ This is a peculiarly interesting little book, written in 
the simple, vivacious style that makes these little manuals 
as delightful to read as they are instructive.” — Nash- 
ville Tennessean and American. 

A LITTLE COOK-BOOK FOR A LITTLE GIRL 

By Caroline French Benton. 

This book explains how to cook so simply that no one 
can fail to understand every word, even a complete 
novice. 

A LITTLE HOUSEKEEPING BOOK FOR A 
LITTLE GIRL 

By Caroline French Benton. 

A little girl, home from school on Saturday mornings, 
finds out how to make helpful use of her spare time, and 
also how to take proper pride and pleasure in good 
housework. 

A LITTLE SEWING BOOK FOR A LITTLE 
GIRL 

By Louise Frances Cornell. 

“ It is comprehensive and practical, and yet revealingly 
instructive. It takes a little girl who lives alone with 
her mother, and shows how her mother taught her the 
art of sewing in its various branches. The illustrations 
aid materially.” — Wilmington Every Evening. 

A LITTLE PRESERVING BOOK FOR A 
LITTLE GIRL 

By Amy L. Waterman. 

In simple, clear wording, Mrs. Waterman explains 
every step of the process of preserving or “ canning ” 
fruits and vegetables. 

A LITTLE GARDENING BOOK FOR A LITTLE 
GIRL 

By Peter Martin. 

This little volume is an excellent guide for the young 
gardener. In addition to truck gardening, the book gives 
valuable information on flowers, the planning of the 
garden, selection of varieties, etc. 

A — 10 


BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE 


THE LITTLE COLONEL BOOKS 

(Trade Mark) 

By Annie Fellows Johnston 
Each, large 12mo, cloth, illustraied, per volume . $1.75 

THE LITTLE COLONEL STORIES 

(Trade Mark) 

Being three “ Little Colonel ” stories in the Cosy Comer 
Series, “ The Little Colonel,’^ “ Two Little Knights of 
Kentucky,” and “ The Giant Scissors,” in a single volume. 

THE LITTLE COLONEL’S HOUSE PARTY 

(Trade Mark) 

THE LITTLE COLONEL’S HOLIDAYS 

(Trade Mark) 

THE LITTLE COLONEL’S HERO 

(Trade Mark) 

THE LITTLE COLONEL AT BOARDING- 

(Trade Mark) 

SCHOOL 

THE LITTLE COLONEL IN ARIZONA 

(Trade Mark) 

THE LITTLE COLONEL’S CHRISTMAS 

(Trade Mark) 

VACATION 

THE LITTLE COLONEL, MAID OF HONOR 

(Trade Mark) 

THE LITTLE COLONEL’S KNIGHT COMES 

(Trade Mark) 

RIDING 

THE LITTLE COLONEL’S CHUM, MARY 

WARE (Trade Mark) 

MARY WARE IN TEXAS 
MARY WARE’S PROMISED LAND 

These twelve volumes, boxed as a set, 118.00. /- 
A — 11 


tub: page compants 


SPECIAL HOLIDAY EDITIONS 

Each small quarto, cloth decorative, per volume . 

New plates, hanasomely illustrated with eight full-page 
drawings in color, and many marginal sketches. 

THE LITTLE COLONEL 

(Trade Mark) 

TWO LITTLE KNIGHTS OF KENTUCKY 
THE GIANT SCISSORS 
BIG BROTHER 

THE JOHNSTON JEWEL SERIES 

Each small 16mo, cloth decorative, vrith frontispiece 

and decorative text borders, per volume $0.75 

IN THE DESERT OF WAITING; The Legend 
OP Camelback Mountain. 

THE THREE WEAVERS: A Fairy Tale for 
Fathers and Mothers as Well as for Their 
Daughters. 

KEEPING TRYST: A Tale op King Arthur’s 
Time. 

THE LEGEND OF THE BLEEDING HEART 
THE RESCUE OF PRINCESS WINSOME: 

A Fairy Play for Old and Young. 

THE JESTER’S SWORD 


THE LITTLE COLONEL’S GOOD TIME-S 
BOOK 

Uniform in size with. the Little Colonel Series . $1.75 

Bound in white kid (morocco) and gold . 6.00 

Cover design and decorations by Peter Verberg. 

“ A mighty attractive volume in which the owner may 
record the good times she has on decorated pages, and 
under the directions as it were of Annie Fellows John- 
ston.” — Buffalo Express, 

A — 13 


BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE 


THE LITTLE COLONEL DOLL BOOK — First 
Series 

Quarto, boards, printed in colors . . . $1.75 

A series of “ Little Colonel ” dolls. Each has several 
changes of costume, so they can be appropriately clad 
for the rehearsal of any scene or incident in the series. 

THE LITTLE COLONEL DOLL BOOK — Sec- 
ond Series 

Quarto, boards, printed in colors . . . $1.75 

An artistic series of paper dolls, including not only 
lovable Mary Ware, the Little Colonel’s chum, but many 
another of the much loved characters which appear in 
the last three volumes of the famous “ Little Colonel 
Series.” 

THE STORY OF THE RED CROSS: as Told to 
the Little Colonel 

Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated . . . $1.00 

This story originally appeared in “ The Little Colonel’s 
Hero,” but the publishers decided to issue it as a 
separate volume. 

“ No one could tell the story of the Red Cross with 
more vividness and enthusiasm than this author, and 
here she is at her best. No book published during the 
Great War is more valuable and timely than this appeal- 
ing story of the beginning of the Red Cross.” — New 
York Tribune. 

“ It deserves a place in every school as well as in 
every home where the work of the Red Cross is appre- 
ciated.” — Evening Express, Portland, Me. 

“ Not only VERY interesting, but has large educa- 
tional value.” — Lookout, Cincinnati, Ohio. 

JOEL: A BOY OF GALILEE 

12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated . , . $1.75 

“ The book is a very clever handling of the greatest 
event in the history of the world.” — Rochester, N, Y., 
Herald. 

A — 13 


THE PAGE COM PANTS 


THE SANDMAN SERIES 

Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 
per volume , . . . . , , $1.65 

By William J. Hopkins 

THE SANDMAN l His Farm Stories. 

“ Mothers and fathers and kind elder sisters who take 
the little ones to bed and rack their brains for stories 
will find this book a treasure.” — Cleveland Leader, 

THE SANDMAN: More Farm Stories. 

“ Children will call for these stories over and over 
again.” — Chicago Evening Post. 

THE SANDMAN: His Ship Stories. 

“ Little ones will understand and delight in the stories 
and their parents will read between the lines and recog- 
nize the poetic and artistic work of the author.” — 
Indianapolis News. 

THE SANDMAN: His Sea Stories. 

“ Once upon a time there was a man who knew little 
children and the kind of stories they liked, so he wrote 
four books of Sandman’s stories, all about the farm or 
the sea, and the brig Industry, and this book is one of 
them,” — Canadian Congregationalist. 

By Jenny Wallis 

THE SANDMAN: His Songs and Rhymes. 

“ Here is a fine collection of poems for mothers and 
friends to use at the twilight hour. They are not of the 
soporific kind especially. They are wholesome reading 
when most wide-awake and of such a soothing and deli- 
cious flavor that they are welcome when the lights are 
low.” — Christian Intelligence. 

A — U 










■ - '*L> 


t.x 


*••'•■ * •; * ' I * « ' 


>.-*. A,'* / 







- ::k,- 

',*1 '•'•'i-'i-' ■’ ’,-• ' •■’ 1 ■ ^ •’»'» 'f-' ' 

, . '. 5 ■ . . . ‘.f. V : • . • •• v'-, • -‘, • 


. ’ •• . .••• 

^ . > . » _ f b V » r • . , ■ ' ' i »'. r - t*’ . 


^ - V r I 1 I • , ' • / 

■ ’ v:;V. 

' V.;- , ; ■ 





•' . 7 . I i >■ j'/) ■ ; * '. ■■’ ' ' .' . r > 


-V. 




b b' ' ■ :'• 

•', :.; ’'.bb 'f*i 

' .1 ’ V I* >-*>* » 

» . - • . ; ‘ . 1 • .► » . J 


; I- 


k: 


' • ' ^ 7.' - »'*'••/ , - , ' 

' • . ■ ■ ■• ■ ■: 


-nm 

■ '? j V< > >1*^ *£ 


. ' 'il 













